A Second Collection
by Ryeloza
Summary: My annual fic-a-day for December 2011: another batch of stories requested by you all.  Chapter Twenty-three: Bree, Karl and Evan at Christmastime.  Season six.
1. Bad Ideas

**Disclaimer: **I make absolutely no claim to _Desperate Housewives_.

**A/n: **Well it's December, and I am determined to complete another fic-a-day collection from now until the 24th. The first 24 requests will get done this month. If there are any extra requests, I promise to get to them eventually (I actually still have a few leftover from last spring, which I promise I haven't forgotten about).

First up is one for **Aubrey**, who requested a fic where Tom and Lynette have angry sex. What a way to kick off the month. This is rated M, obviously, so if that's not your thing, turn back now. Takes place in season one after "Guilty."

Please let me know if you have a request. I am not watching season 8, so that is the one thing off limits. Pretty much everything else is fair game.

Thanks for reading!

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**One: Bad Ideas**

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing!" Lynette wrenched her arm from Susan's grip—not that her friend was holding on particularly hard or putting up much of a fight, but Lynette was too worked up not to physically rebel; that Susan was the nearest target was her own fault. She never should have propelled her into the living room. "Can we just get back to dinner?"

"No!" Susan stomped her foot and, as she always did when annoyed, flailed her arms dramatically. Her right hand smacked into her Christmas tree, ornaments rattling and one sad looking candy cane falling to the floor. "All I am asking for is a nice dinner party. You and Tom are acting like it's the Cold War all over again!"

"I told you this was a bad idea."

"And I told you I need this! Do you know how long it's been since I've been in a normal relationship? Since I've gotten to host a couples' night?"

"Susan—"

"Mike's only renting, you know. Do you think he's going to want to stay if he thinks all the neighbors are insane?"

"Well he seems awfully fond of you."

Susan scowled, and Lynette felt herself soften minutely. After all, it wasn't really Susan's fault. Beyond the fact that Susan had forced her into this over every protest she'd thrown her way, of course. "Look," Susan said before Lynette could decide if she wanted to apologize or not, "can't you two just call a truce for an hour? I promise we won't play charades."

"He's the one giving me the silent treatment."

"Oh yeah. And you're just chatting up a storm. Please, Lynette."

"Lynette?"

Susan glanced over to where Tom had appeared in the doorway, and then she swiveled back to face Lynette, whose eyes remained fixed on the Christmas tree. "Please," she repeated, voice low. Lynette groaned, more out of frustration than anything, but Susan seemed to take it as acquiescence. "Thank you!" she trilled, and she almost ran from the room.

"Are you ready to go?"

Lynette rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest, slowly turning to face her husband. He had that look of impatience she rarely saw—a sign that he needed time and space to cool off. It didn't happen often; usually she was the one who stormed off; she was the one who had to have time alone to relax. That he was this pissed didn't bode well for Susan's plea for peace. "We're in the middle of dinner," she said huffily, as if she actually wanted to be here eating Susan's sad excuse of a roast. "We can't just leave."

"Sure we can. We're just making them uncomfortable."

"Susan wants us here."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Look, I don't want to be here either, but we are, so let's just put on a happy act until we get home and then you can go back to ignoring me, okay?"

Tom threw up his hands. "This is ridiculous!"

"Shut up!" she hissed. She crossed the room until she was an arm's length from him, dropping her voice dangerously low. "They're going to hear you!"

"So?" he said, raising his voice—probably just to spite her. "They already know we're fighting! Do you really think this is going to make this night more awkward?"

Lynette grabbed his forearm with ten times the force Susan had held hers minutes before and angrily propelled him down the hall to the downstairs bathroom. It was only a half-bath, small to begin with and then made nearly claustrophobic by the oppressive flowered wallpaper and cloying stench of apricots. With the door shut, she and Tom were practically standing on top of each other.

"I told you I didn't want to come here!" said Tom. He was grumbling now, his voice low and furious and no less galling. "This was a bad idea!"

"I know that!"

"Then what the hell are we doing here?"

"Because it's important to Susan!"

"Ooh, well if it's important to _Susan_," said Tom, and the jeering quality of his tone made her stomach drop and blood boil at the same time. "Let's drop everything if it's important to _Susan_, right?"

"Okay, fine! Let's hear it, Tom! Go ahead and get it all out of your system now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh cut the bullshit. This has nothing to do with Susan—nothing to do with being stuck here tonight! You've been pissed at me ever since I told you about taking the boys' ADD medication. Go ahead. Just say it."

Tom ran his hand over the back of his head; in a desperate moment, he looked like he was going to back away from her only to realize that he was trapped with nowhere to go. She glared at him, waiting for the explosion she'd been expecting for days, almost tapping her foot in impatience. This had gone on long enough.

"Well?"

"God—You—" He shook his head, and in one sudden moment, his hands were on her hips, shoving her back against the door as his mouth crushed into hers, his teeth hitting hers, nose pressing into her cheek. For a second, she was breathless with surprise, and it wasn't until he nipped at her lip, hands tightening almost uncomfortably on her hips that she awakened to him. Angrily, she pushed him back into the sink and wrapped her hands around his neck, nails digging into the sensitive skin there as she held him captive against her lips. His mouth was hot and insistent against hers, demanding in every movement, reminding her with every bite and stroke of his tongue that he was only looking to punish her.

Without warning, his hands drifted to her ass, hoisting her up. He turned and jammed his shoulder against the wall as he tried to maneuver her onto the sink. "Shit," he growled against her mouth, but the pain seemed the opposite of a deterrent. His hands groped at the hem of her skirt, shoving it up, nails dragging over her thighs and leaving behind angry red marks. At the same time, his mouth left hers and began to trail down her neck toward her chest. His teeth scraped over her collarbone, and she dropped her hands to the fly of his pants to hastily undo the button. She could feel him hard against her hand, and she didn't hesitate to draw him out, stroking him hard and fast, reaching down and palming his balls less-than-gently.

"Fuck!" He breathed the word into her chest as his hands fumbled with her panties. He shoved them down just far enough to be out of the way, and then his hand was on her. Instantly, he pressed two fingers up into her, pumping them in and out with a feverish intensity, crooking them inside of her so they kept hitting that one spot where the world seemed to brighten and dim at the same time—the one that made her eyes fall shut, head dipping back as she panted wildly. Her body was trembling, feverish with sweat, and then his fingers were gone. His hands hooked under her knees, dragging her to the edge of the sink until she was practically falling off, but it didn't matter because a second later his cock was inside of her, pinioning her against the cold marble surface. There was no hesitation, no moment for her to catch her breath; he fucked her hard and mercilessly, already so unhinged that his rhythm was erratic. She moaned loudly, dug her fingers into his shoulders, let him pound into her without any show of tenderness. It was dirty—nearly degrading—desperate in some way, but her body hummed in response, unrepentant in its need for this.

"Don't you ever, ever do anything like that again," he growled. The words were disjointed, burrowing through the fog in her brain like she was lost from all rational thought. "Fuck—I don't know what the hell I would ever do if I lost you! Do you understand that? Do you?"

She shook her head, unable to understand, unable to comprehend anything but the feel of him inside of her. Every inch of her body felt on fire—every nerve tingling with an inexpressible pleasure. Her hips bucked against him, her mind lost to anything but feeling, and her shriek was only silenced by one sloppy kiss as he lost complete control.

As they stilled, the silence was finally, strangely comfortable—welcomed in a way that it hadn't been in days. His hands stroked her thighs, hers gently brushing his neck and shoulder; it was soothing after a moment devoid of any tenderness.

"I'm sorry."

The words came softly, not from her but from him, breathed into her mouth like oxygen she didn't realize she needed. "I'm sorry. You can't…You don't know…"

"I do." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "And I'm sorry too."

"You have to talk to me."

"I know. I…will."

He nodded, raising his head to look down at her. His thumbs ran over her cheekbones, dipping down and grazing over her bottom lip. Gently, she wrapped her fingers around the collar of his shirt, tugging him back down and kissing him again.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.


	2. Home

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you to those of you who reviewed and/or requested something. Please keep them coming!

This one is for **Meg**, who asked for a story about Tom and Lynette making up after an argument. Takes place pre-series.

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Two: Home**

Tom is sitting outside of her apartment when she comes home that night. Even though he's still wearing his coat, coffee cup clutched tightly in both hands, she can tell he's been there awhile. He's shivering—the heat has been out in the building since last night—and Mrs. Rupert's cat has taken up residence next to him either in attempt to give heat or get it. When he sees her, he doesn't really move, just blinking up at her, teeth chattering. "Hi," he sniffles. He sounds miserable, and some hard part of her heart softens just a little. "Buy anything good?"

"Maybe." She shifts her bags further up her arms so she can unlock the door, fumbling to find the light switch as it swings open. For a second, she wonders if she can actually leave him out in the hall to freeze to death (since apparently he can no longer physically move), but her heart isn't in it. However angry she's been at him, he clearly wouldn't be suffering like this if he didn't want to make up. "Can you move?" she asks, dumping the bags in her apartment and looking down at him with her hands on her hips.

"I don't think so."

Almost smiling, she reaches down and takes hold of his forearm so she can pull him to his feet, nearly falling backward in the process. He unfolds slowly, like it's actually causing him pain, and the cat meows pitifully. "Come on," she says, wheeling him through the door and kicking it shut behind her. He stumbles halfheartedly to the couch, teeth still chattering, and collapses in a rather pathetic manner.

"God, it's not any warmer in here."

"Heat's out."

"Great."

She shrugs like she didn't go to the mall today just to get out of the cold for awhile. Without bothering to take off her coat, she flops down on the couch next to him and drapes the blanket hanging over the back of her sofa over their laps. "How long were you out there?"

"An hour? More than an hour?"

"You sound like you're sick," she observes, taking one of his hands. It's cold as ice, and she rubs it mindlessly. "That's how you catch pneumonia, you know."

"It was the cat."

"What?"

"I'm allergic. Somehow the heat seemed worth it at the time. Also, it wouldn't go away."

Against her better judgment, she smiles, pressing her lips together in a lame attempt to hide it from him. Considering that he's barely cognizant of much more than getting warm right now, though, it's a vain effort. "This isn't doing much for my argument that you move in, is it?"

"No." He laughs, but when he turns to look at her, there's an apology in his eyes. "No, no, no."

She sighs. They've been arguing about this for a few weeks now—little spats that coalesced into a full-fledged fight two nights ago. He'd stormed out and she'd spent two days ignoring his phone calls. When the heat went out last night, she'd cursed like a sailor, and not only because she was forced to huddle under every blanket she owned just to stay warm that night. It felt like the final nail in the coffin: in all the battles she had had with this apartment, it had finally won.

"I like this place."

"I know." He squeezes her hand, some feeling in his fingers regained. "I will never understand why, but I know."

"It's the first place I could ever afford to live on my own," she reminisces, not an attempt to make him understand, but just a quiet nostalgia. Knowing that this will be her last month here; that she'll have to spend the next few weeks packing up and closing some chapter of her life that she's been awfully fond of. And it's not that she's not ready—she feels ready; she's felt a rightness and certainness ever since Tom slipped that ring onto her finger—but it's also sad, and she knows some selfish part of her wanted to keep a foot in both worlds. "I never really cared that the hot water was inconsistent or that the neighborhood wasn't that great or that the window in the bedroom doesn't open. It was a home."

She lays her head against Tom's shoulder, closing her eyes as he presses a kiss against her hair. She's glad that he doesn't try to say anything to make it better—this quiet acknowledgement is better than any words. It's comfort and understanding—it's Tom knowing what home means to her after years of never having one. There's some peace in it; whatever sadness lingers, she knows this is right.

He's her home now.


	3. Intersection

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **This one (which I am getting in just under the wire) is for **StylishCandy**, who requested a story with a Bree/Chuck/Orson triangle. I will say, I have most certainly missed writing Orson.

Enjoy! Thank you all for reading and reviewing! And especially for requesting! These wouldn't be possible without you all.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Three: Intersection**

There was a familiarity about the place as she walked in, but it wasn't until she spotted ancient Mrs. Nubolt that Bree's heart began to beat faster. In some instantaneous fit of uncharacteristic-ness, her palms began to sweat, and she rubbed them anxiously against her slacks as she backed away from the tiny window at reception. Chuck glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised in question, but he seemed to brush the oddness off; as he approached the window and talked to Mrs. Nubolt, Bree dove for the nearest chair, scooped up a magazine and buried her nose in its pages.

It had to be a coincidence, she thought. Orson's old receptionist working here. It would figure that the old bitty had lied about retiring when Orson sold the practice; Bree had always thought that her over-the-top loyalty was affected. Regardless, though, she couldn't think of any person on the planet she wanted to see less. Mrs. Nubolt had always detested her, even before Orson had sold the practice; there was no doubt in Bree's mind that that hatred had only magnified in the intervening years.

"Interesting read?"

"Hmm?" Bree peeked an eye over the top of the magazine to look at Chuck, and used the opportunity to make sure Mrs. Nubolt wasn't spying. "Oh yes. Very interesting."

"Funny—I didn't take you for someone interested in body building."

"Oh, well…" She flushed in embarrassment—she couldn't have picked up something respectable like _Good Housekeeping_—but kept the magazine steadfastly level with her face. "Fitness is very important."

"Yeah…" He sat down beside her, leaning into her personal space and glancing at what seemed to be a particularly lewd picture of a man in a thong. "Well now I know what to get you for Christmas."

The heat felt scarlet in her cheeks now—a sensation that always brought back horrible memories of being teased as a girl. It felt ridiculous. She was hiding, not only from Mrs. Nubolt, but from her boyfriend—something she had thought she'd long ago outgrown.

Maybe that had just been wishful thinking.

"You know, I was just thinking that maybe I should go."

"Go? Bree, you offered to do this. You know I can't drive home after this procedure."

"Well you can call me. Meet me down at the car. Honestly, you won't even know I'm gone once you're under anesthesia."

"Okay, Bree. What's going on?"

"Nothing. It's just that I have a million things to get done today. You know me. Always busy."

"Uh-huh. You know you have about four different tells when you're lying."

Was that true? She couldn't imagine that she was so transparent; not after years of hiding. But Chuck was looking at her with those frank eyes—a police officer's eyes—and she wondered how differently they saw her. "Fine," she huffed. She turned her head slightly, still holding the magazine in front of her face. "My ex-husband's old receptionist is working the desk."

"Mrs. Nubolt?"

"Shh! Yes, Mrs. Nubolt. I don't want her to see me."

"Because…?"

"Because she's my ex-husband's old receptionist!"

"Oh, right. Of course." Chuck lifted his head to look at the window that separated Mrs. Nubolt from the general population. "I can see how she's terrifying."

"Look," snapped Bree, "she and I didn't get along before Orson sold his practice, and I have no qualms in believing that she hates me now more than…What? What is that look?"

"Your ex-husband is Orson Hodge?"

"Yes. What…?" But Bree knew with a sinking heart what Chuck was about to say. Mrs. Nubolt hadn't gone on to another practice. She'd come out of retirement for the one man she'd always claimed to be most loyal to.

"Orson is your _dentist_?"

She dropped the magazine as she hissed the final word, and with his usual impeccable timing, Orson chose that moment to appear in the doorway leading to the back of the office. She spotted him first—her heart pounding as though it wanted to beat out of her chest—and before she could think to hide or flee or pat down her hair, Orson's eyes found hers, lighting up in surprise.

"Bree?"

Good manners took over as instinct. She rose, crossing the room toward the man she'd spent a decade of her life with, and smiling what felt to be the most saccharine smile of her life. Mostly, she felt ill, uncertain what to do or say or how to act. "Hello, Orson."

"What are you…" He cleared his throat. "It's nice to see you."

"You too."

The good breeding they'd both had imprinted on them from birth seemed to fail them. It was like talking to a stranger, but worse because they'd once been the most intimate of lovers. Their current relationship strained under the pressure of the past—how to treat the person you'd vowed to spend your life with and now hadn't spoken to in six months. They hadn't planned for this. They had no children to bind them together. Nothing left to keep their paths intertwined. They should have been able to drift separately through the rest of their lives.

Fate had no business throwing them together unexpectedly.

"Hello, Dr. Hodge."

Bree startled. She'd forgotten Chuck was there. His hand skimmed the small of her back, such an innocuous gesture, but one that Orson didn't miss. As he greeted Chuck, his eyes followed that one possessive gesture up to Bree's face, and she saw in his eyes the slightest light of acknowledgement. It made her feel self-conscious, but she had no idea why. She and Orson were divorced. They'd both been with other people. There was no reason for her to feel awkward or uncomfortable. But that's exactly what this was, and she wanted nothing more than to distance herself from Chuck while within Orson's gaze.

"I didn't realize you'd started a new practice," she said instead. Orson's strained politeness turned genuinely thrilled, his face lighting up with some kind of excitement she hadn't seen in years. She had missed that. She hadn't realized how much until now. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," said Orson softly.

They stared at one another for a moment longer. Suddenly, it was nine years ago—a lifetime when they were happy and so very in love—and nothing had changed or ever come between them.

Only a moment.

She'd come to learn that small moments had to satisfy a lifetime.

"Well, Chuck. I'm ready for you. Just head back to room three."

Chuck nodded, squeezing Bree's fingers as he passed. She felt very grateful for him, for his ability not to turn this brief juncture where their lives all intersected into anything more. "He's a good man," said Orson once Chuck was out of earshot. "He doesn't floss enough, but I suppose you could overlook that."

"Yes." Bree smiled. "I suppose I could." She nodded, a slight acknowledgement of everything they'd never say. "Good seeing you, Orson."

"Lovely seeing you, Bree. Always."


	4. Many Years Ago

**Disclaimer: **It's still not mine.

**A/n: **This is for the wonderful **Adii1201**, who requested a fic about Tom and Lynette reconnecting after the tornado in season four. I'm so glad you asked for this one; it's a fic I've always had in the back of my mind to write and never have.

Thank you all for reading, reviewing and, especially, requesting! Please keep them coming!

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Four: Many Years Ago**

"Are you awake?"

Even though Tom whispered, his voice seemed to cut through the room like a knife. Silence had settled over the street like an unwelcome stranger, uneasy after the tornado and the chaos that followed. It was a lull—a moment of quiet after the wreckage and before the repair—but Lynette felt it smothering her in the too black night. "Yes," she answered, and she imagined the word falling into some abyss. Even with Tom mere feet away, she still felt isolated. Purposefully, she turned onto her side and sought out her daughter's prone form where she rested between her and Tom, and she gently ran her fingers over her thick curls. Penny was okay, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. They all were.

"Okay."

The word lacked reassurance, but she understood. It wasn't enough to know that she was lying here with him, that they were together and relatively unscathed. She thought the fear must be blanketing him as completely as it did her, that nothing short of melding together, housing their souls in one body, would make them feel safe again. But it wasn't a thought to be offered in comfort. She wasn't sure either of them could assuage the blind terror they'd faced today.

From the floor, a sleeping bag rustled as one of the kids rolled over. Gaby had generously offered her home to them while she kept a vigil over Carlos at the hospital, a place to find refuge until they could make their home livable again. The Solises' house stood a miracle among the rest of the homes, a pillar of perfection among the debris, but despite this—despite the five bedrooms at their disposal—all seven of them had wound up in the same room together. Lynette wasn't sure whose idea it was; it seemed to just happen by mutual coalescing, probably the first and last time that would ever happen in this family.

"Tom?"

"Hmm?"

But again, there was nothing more to say. Now was not the time to ask what had gone on in that house. It was not the moment to exchange tearful horror stories about how they'd both been convinced the other was dead. Maybe that moment would never come—she wasn't sure. In some way, it felt as though none of it needed to be said because they both already knew.

Perhaps they had transcended the need to express it in words.

But still, she felt needy. Even as death had stared both of them in the face this past year more than once, this time felt different. This hadn't been a drawn-out battle—a fight to win or lose. In the blink of an eye, she had been so certain she'd lost everything, and her faith in the balance of the world had been shaken to its core. Seeing her family was not enough; being here with them was not enough. She thought that perhaps the panic would never completely heal, and yes, it made her needy.

She needed to keep reminding herself that Tom was here with her. Irrational as it was, the terror that she would wake up and find him gone from her forever was palpable.

Tom seemed to take her silent response in stride. She heard rather than felt him roll to face her (Gaby had one of those fantastic mattresses that didn't move; Lynette had always wanted one, but tonight she'd give anything for their old spring mattress), and her heartbeat slowed as Tom's voice came clearer through the pitch black. "I've never been scared of the dark."

She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Me either," she said quietly.

"This is going to sound ridiculous, but I wish we had one of the kids' night lights right now."

She wanted to laugh, but it really couldn't have been less amusing. She'd never been scared of the dark. Tonight she was keenly petrified. With the electricity out, they were swallowed by the night, left with uncertainty when all they wanted was clarity. "I know," she said, wondering who this person was, admitting she was scared of the dark. But Tom understood—it wasn't the boogyman she thought would claim them.

And then it came, soft and sweet and beautiful from out of the chasm that separated them. Tom was humming. The tune came out slightly broken, a care not to wake the children, but warmth surrounded her for the first time all night as she lay there and listened. It was some lullaby he sang the children—a song his mother had sung to him—one that spoke to her of all the good and wonderful things in this world.

"And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me today," she half-sang, half-mumbled along, wrapped up in a thousand contented moments in their life. It felt like she could have been back in the doorway of their children's nursery, watching Tom sing to the twins when they were only babies. It felt like holding the phone up to Parker's ear when he was sick so Tom could sing from a hotel room three thousand miles away.

It felt like being safe at home.

She reached out over Penny's head, laying her arm against the pillow, unsurprised when she met Tom's fingers. They intertwined their hands, finding grace in this moment.

And finally, Lynette was able to fall asleep.


	5. Conversation in a Kitchen

**Disclaimer: **I'm just doing this for fun.

A/n: Well, this one is a tad bit late; don't hold it against me. This is for **Isabelle**, who asked for a fic about the time Bree, Keith and Orson were all living together. Takes place in season seven.

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Five: Conversation in a Kitchen**

"So, how did Andrew and Danielle react when you told them you were giving them a new big brother for Christmas?"

"You know, Orson, most guests understand the difference between humorous and rude."

"Yes. Then again, most guests aren't your ex-husband."

"And most women wouldn't let their ex-husbands stay with them after their new girlfriends kicked them out."

"Touché. Bree, all kidding aside, I am very thankful that you've given me a place to stay."

"You're welcome."

"And I'm sure you're grateful for a little intellectual stimulation."

"Orson…"

"What? I'm just saying…this makes sense to me. You and Muscles, that is. I mean, everyone needs one bad rebound in their life. This is yours."

"Keith is not a rebound. We're living together. We're very happy."

"Yes, of course. How silly of me. I was perusing his CD collection earlier. Clearly you've finally found someone who shares your love of ACDC. And turning the study into a weight lifting room...your idea or his? I swear it's like you're sharing a brain."

"Orson Hodge! In all the years I've know you, I never imagined you'd become such…"

"A hoot? A delight? A first class wit?"

"A snob!"

"You never…Oh Bree…Oh please…"

"Stop laughing."

"I'm sorry…Oh, I just…"

"Orson!"

"Well honestly, Bree, how do you expect me to react? 'In all the years I've known you…' In all the years you've know me, when haven't I been a snob? And for that matter, when haven't you? It's like I don't even recognize you. For God's sake, you're wearing _jeans_."

"These happen to be very nice pants."

"When was the last time you went to the opera? The symphony? A movie that didn't have flatulence humor?"

"I'll have you know I'm still very cultured."

"There's a picture of dogs playing poker hanging up in your study! _Dogs_ playing _poker_. I have to say, I'm—Oh, hello Keith."

"Orson. Hey, babe, what's for dinner tonight? I'm starving."

"Oh, you're going to love this! Orson and I are making duck l'orange. Very _cultured_. I was just telling Orson how much you _love_ cultured things."

"Duck, huh?"

"Duck l'orange, yes. What's…What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just…Well, I don't really like duck."

"You've…You've had duck then?"

"Oh sure. My uncle used to take me duck hunting all the time as a kid. He used to deep fry them, but I never really acquired a taste for it."

"Deep fry? Oh goodness. I think I need to sit down."

"Hey, don't worry about it. You didn't know. This is great actually. A couple of my friends invited me over to watch the game. I can just grab some pizza with them and you can stay her and eat duck a la orange with Orson."

"Sounds like perfection, doesn't it Bree?"

"Hahaha. Man, the way you talk, Orson. It's so…distinct. Well, I'm gonna go get a shower. Let me know how it turns out."

"Yes…I…I'll see you later, darling."

"Bye Keith! Well, Bree. Clearly I was all wrong about him."

"Orson?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, definitely rubbing off on you."


	6. Shades of Change

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine.

**A/n: **This one is for **Alana, **who asked for a story about when Lynette was a teenager. This takes place when she's about eighteen. I hope you all enjoy.

Thank you all for reading! Requests are still very welcome!

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Six: Shades of Change**

Lynette hadn't grown an inch since eighth grade, and she'd never had any illusions about being very intimidating. At a mere 5'5", skinny as she was, she'd always thought of herself as scrappy more than anything. But as she grabbed the guy accosting her little sister by the arm and wrenched him toward the door, she had the sudden impression that maybe she was more formidable than she thought. Never mind that the kid only had an inch or two on her, or that she had had the element of surprise, she felt in that moment that she could have taken on a fully grown man twice her size and still triumphed. Exhilaration and anger pumped through her veins as she locked the door and wheeled around to face Lydia, who, unfortunately, looked more annoyed than anything. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What the hell are _you_ doing? You had no right to do that! Nick's my boyfriend!"

"Your _boyfriend_? You're twelve!"

"So? Half the girls in my class have already had sex!"

"Half the girls? Really? God, Lydia, I swear, if you've had sex…"

Lydia put her hands on her hips, obviously trying to look more dominant; suddenly, though, she looked even younger to Lynette. A little girl who had gotten into her mother's make-up and stolen her older sister's clothes in some attempt to play dress up. It hurt to look at her. "What?" she demanded, voice trembling as she remained ignorant to Lynette's thoughts. "What are you going to do?"

The door opened before Lynette could respond, Lucy storming in like the perpetual black cloud she'd been for months now. She blew past her sisters without any kind of acknowledgement, went into their bedroom and slammed the door, and Lynette only hesitated a second before she grabbed Lydia by the arm and followed Lucy into the other room. "Sit," she commanded, pushing Lydia down on the bed. She turned on Lucy, already buried in a magazine with her Walkman blasting. "You too," she snapped, pulling the headphones off and pointing at Lydia's bed.

"What's your problem?"

"Now!"

Lucy rolled her eyes, but slowly complied, every movement dripping with condescension. The two of them sat identically, arms crossed, heads cocked as they glared up at her—Lucy, without the globs of makeup and runny mascara, pulled it off better than Lydia. With effort, Lynette shook away the current image and tried to picture her sisters before they'd become snot-nosed teens; when it didn't work, she focused on her anger instead. "We need to talk," she said.

Lucy snapped her gum. "What did Lydia do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Then, defensively, she added, "Lucy has a boyfriend too!"

"Yeah, I know." Lynette took a deep breath, slowly counting to ten, while Lucy gave her a look of equal parts amusement and disgust.

"This isn't going to be a sex talk is it?"

"No. Yes. Kind of."

"Have you even had sex?"

"Yes," snapped Lynette before she thought it through. It was hard not to slap the smug look off of Lucy's face. "But I was sixteen, not twelve—" She gave Lydia a very pointed look. "—and to tell you the truth, it kind of sucked."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. But that's not the point. The point is…" But there she trailed off uncertainly. The point was that she didn't want what had happened to her to happen to her sisters. She didn't want them to bring home a boy who didn't really care, who didn't really know. She didn't want either of them to lie there regretting it even as it happened. But at the same time, she felt all her fumbling inexperience bubbling to the surface and exposing her as fraudulent. She didn't know anything—she didn't know if it got better than that; she didn't know that every girl didn't go through the same thing. All she had was one mediocre experience and a high school education's worth of health classes.

There was every chance in the world her sisters were going to go through the same thing, whether they did it now or in ten years, and nothing she said or did now was going to stop them. It made her feel hollow inside—that old feeling of petrifying horror that she didn't know what the hell she was doing, but she had two people utterly dependent on her for the answers. And, as she had been doing for her entire life, she had no choice but to scrounge up some sort of courage and fake her way through.

"The point is," she repeated, more gently than before, "that in eight months, I'm going to be away at college, and you two are going to be on your own. Do you get that? I'm not going to be here."

"Yeah," sniffed Lucy. "That's if you even get into college. I haven't seen an acceptance letter yet."

Lynette let the comment roll off of her as if it didn't pinpoint every fear she'd had for the past four years, since the first time college had been seen as a goal, not just a way to escape. As if she hadn't pressed a kiss to each application she'd sent out, sending with it a silent hope and prayer that she really was meant for more than this.

"She'll get in," said Lydia, sounding, for the first time all day, like herself. She'd picked up an old stuffed bear and was hugging it to her chest. "And you know it. That's why you're so mad at her."

"I'm not mad," Lucy sniffed. "I'm just sick of you acting like you're our mom. You're not, you know. And if you were really that worried about us, you wouldn't leave in the first place."

Lynette sighed and sat down across from them on Lucy's bed. "You're right," she said. "I'm not your mom. And I am leaving. But that's my point. You two have got to start making smart decisions because I'm not going to be here to clean up your messes. Do you get that?"

Neither of them responded, a sullen silence that spoke more to their anger that she was planning to leave than that they didn't understand her. But how long was she supposed to stay here, chained to this place and these responsibilities? When was she supposed to start her own life? When was she allowed to quit this job she'd never wanted?

"Look," she said, her ire raising again. "You can do what you want. But if you're going to have sex, use a condom. No matter what. Lydia—do you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Lucy? Huh? Because I want to paint a real clear picture for both of you. God only knows what Mom'll do if either of you gets knocked up. But even in a best case scenario, she's not going to be any help. And you'll either be stuck here or off on your own, but either way your kid'll end up raised the same way we were."

"So what? You're saying we'll turn into Mom?"

"Yeah. I am. If you don't get out of here—for whatever reason—you're going to end up just like Mom. You're both smart. Lucy, you could ace all your classes if you spent even a minute studying. And Lydia, you are so creative…Do you know what you could do with your kind of talent? And that's all I'm saying. You don't have to choose this. You don't."

It didn't feel like enough. It didn't feel like it began to cover the enormity of what all of them were facing. She didn't imagine that Lucy was suddenly going to stop shoplifting of sneaking cigarettes, or that Lydia wouldn't find some other time to sneak her so-called boyfriend home. And she wasn't so sure she wouldn't find some way to fuck this up either because it wasn't like she made all the best decisions in the world. She wished she could lock all of them up until they knew what they were doing—at least until she knew—and that they would all turn out safe and happy and successful.

But it was a fantasy.

Everything outside of this small home felt like a fantasy. One she was never going to fulfill.

"Are we done?" asked Lucy, standing before Lynette could answer and putting her Walkman back on. She flopped back down on her bed, feet hitting Lynette's arm as she haphazardly swung them in the air. Lynette stood, rubbing at her eyes in sudden exhaustion.

"Go wash your face," she said to Lydia. "Don't let me catch you wearing all that crap anymore."

Lydia let out a huffy sigh, but stalked off to the bathroom to do as she was told, and Lynette walked quietly to the kitchen to start dinner.

There was nothing left to do or say. Nothing left but to wonder if she would ever actually be able to leave.

If there would ever been anything more than this.


	7. Lights On

**Disclaimer: **This really isn't mine. I swear.

**A/n: **Tonight's fic is for both **Breesecretdaughter** and **Allie**. They both asked for a continuation of the scene in "Sunday in the Park with George" where Tom surprises Lynette with the leopard print underwear. If it's not obvious, this chapter is rated M (a very explicit M), so please turn back if that's not your cup of tea.

Thank you for reading and reviewing! Please let me know if you have a request. There's still plenty of days left to fill up. And thank you to everyone who has requested something so far; it's been a blast writing these!

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Seven: Lights On**

Lynette dissolved into giggles against Tom's lips, lifting her head slightly and rubbing her nose against his. "So the embarrassment of buying this isn't enough for you?" he asked sardonically, his tone not nearly enough to pop the joyous bubble inside of her.

"I hadn't even thought of that part. Did you go during your lunch hour? Did you have to hide this in the office all afternoon?"

"You are evil. Do you know that?"

"Evil, am I?" She shifted her hips, wriggling against him, and pressed a few soft kisses against his cheek. "That's not a very nice way to talk to the woman in charge of the lights."

"You're right. My sexy, loving, amazing wife would definitely put me out of my misery."

Lynette pulled back, a wicked expression etched on her features, and she released his wrist for a second to pull off her glasses and toss them on the nightstand. "Is that what you want?" she purred, replacing her hand and slowly stretching out against his body. The movement was an exquisite burn, pressing their bodies together in every place she'd been aching for him for over a week now. Tom groaned as she ground her pelvis into his, a sound that seemed to reverberate through her entire body. "Hmm, Tom?" She began to kiss a path along his jawline and then down his neck, pausing over his pulse point and feeling the fluttering of his heartbeat against her lips.

"I…Oh God…"

"That's what I thought." She sat back up, unzipping her sweatshirt and throwing it to the floor, releasing her hair from its clip and shaking her curls out.

"You know," said Tom, his voice strained in the best way, "these are really more constricting than they look."

"Is that so?"

He strained his wrists, making a halfhearted effort to escape her grip. "Yes."

"Well, let me see what I can do about that."

Tom shut his eyes as she dipped her head and kissed her way down his chest to the waistband of his underwear. Constricting wasn't quite enough to describe the way he was straining for release, but she still took the time to stroke him, prolonging his torture in the best way. He was beyond right about how evil she was.

Gently, she bit the waistband of his underwear, tugging at it with her teeth as she peeled it down his body. It wasn't quite the success she'd hoped for; she found herself subtly lifting her hands to help her, but Tom didn't seem to notice. His dick practically sprung free, and she didn't even bother to remove the underwear completely before she moved her mouth to the head of his cock, running her tongue over the tip and then taking him as far back as she could. With his arms finally free, one of Tom's hands came to rest on the back of her head, not pushing or forcing her, but a wicked reminder that he could if he wanted. The possibility was enough to thrill something horribly dirty inside of her, and she found herself moving faster, one of her hands wrapping around the base of his dick and stroking him firmly.

Tom tugged a bit on her hair, pulling her back. It wasn't a deterrent; she kept her hand in place, rubbing from base to tip, swirling her thumb over the head. "Two weeks," he managed to say in a strangled voice. "God, I am not going to last very long if you keep going like that."

"Like what?" She lowered her head, licking the length of his cock in one long, languid motion, and he let out a ragged sigh. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

He laughed shakily. "I want you."

"All you had to do was ask," she said silkily. She stood, her own legs feeling boneless, trying her best to hide the fact that she was throbbing for him. Her breasts ached to be touch; her panties were soaked already. This was not a one-sided war, much as she wanted to pretend it was. Still, she kept up the façade, unbuttoning her jeans first and shimmying out of them as gracefully as she could. If there was any lack of coordination, Tom seemed to be immune, his eyes roving over the length of her body with an ill-concealed greed. Slowly, she pulled off her tank top and then unclasped her bra and let it slip from her shoulders. She put her hands on her breasts then, massaging them, toying with her own nipples and moaning at the ragged release she found in touching them.

It was too much for Tom to play a passive role now. He sat up, grasping her hips and pulling her toward him as his hands fumbled to pull her panties off. She continued to knead her breasts, letting Tom take the lead as he splayed his fingers over her bare ass and pulled her onto his lap. His dick pressed into her stomach, his own hands pushing hers out of the way as they settled large and warm over her tits, and she rubbed herself against his thigh in some instinctive effort to find relief.

"Lie down," she ordered, trying to take back control of this situation before she lost it entirely. She pushed him back when he didn't immediately comply, leaning over him, breasts aching as they swung down. As she had when this began, her hands found his wrists again, holding him back as some enticing punishment for both of them.

"Is this what you want?" She lowered her hips, rubbing her clit against his dick, shutting her eyes and moaning in spite of the vestige of power she was trying to convey. Two weeks was too long for this. Too long to pretend she didn't want him to pull her down and fuck her senseless. "You want to be inside of me?"

"I know that's what you want."

She groaned, unable to deny it, but forcing herself to raise her hips away from him. "That's not what I asked."

"You're desperate for it," he said, enjoying this. Enjoying every chance to turn the tables and try to make her beg. "I bet I could make you cum without ever being inside of you."

"I could do it myself without you inside of me. But that's not what you want. You don't want to lie here while touch myself and moan and bury my fingers in my pussy, right? That's not what you want, is it, Tom?"

"No," he breathed, his eyes shutting, the mental image of her pleasuring herself too much for him. "You know I want to be buried inside of you. You know I want to cum in your hot, tight pussy."

"That's right." She reached back, taking hold of him with her right hand and guiding his dick to her opening. With all the patience she had left, she lowered herself down on him as gradually as she could. His hips jerked up, trying to push deeper into her, but she settled her hands on his torso, holding him down, not letting him take the lead. But when she finally began to move, up and down, turning her hips and deepening the angle, she no longer had any wherewithal to hold back. She shut her eyes, moving faster, moaning without any thought of restraint.

Tom's hands found her breasts again as she breathlessly found a rhythm, coming down on him so he was buried so deeply inside of her that he was hitting her in the exact right spot every time. He pinched her nipples, squeezing and fondling her, working her into a frenzy. She could feel her orgasm building, her body seizing up with that indescribable pleasure that made her movements more and more erratic. She came down hard, grinding her hips as she did, and Tom bucked up into her, coming hard and fast, groaning loudly and setting all of her nerve endings on fire. Desperately, she reached down and began to finger her clit, running her fingers over it in tight, fast circles, screaming loudly as she fell completely over the edge. She continued moving, prolonging her pleasure as Tom's hands found her hips, gripping her tightly and egging her on. They continued wildly, moving without any synchronization, lost in the total turmoil of a moment about nothing but pleasure.

Finally, satiated, she collapsed, rolling off of him onto her back and panting heavily. She laughed, that giddy feeling still alive inside of her, brushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead and then dropping her hand onto Tom's chest. "Maybe we should go that long without sex more often," she joked as Tom tangled his fingers with hers and pulling her hand up so he could kiss her palm.

"Really? Because I was thinking you could give me twenty minutes and we could try that again."

"With the Tarzan underwear?"

"Actually, I was thinking we could pull out that maid's costume again."

Lynette grinned, shutting her eyes and letting out a long, satisfied sigh. "As long as you turn off the lights."


	8. Secrets

**Disclaimer: **It absolutely isn't mine.

**A/n: **This fic is for **Kristina**, who asked for a fic about Bree and Lynette discussing the secrets they had in season six. I honestly cannot remember if Bree confessed the affair with Karl to anyone but Susan, but for the purposes of this fic, no one else knows. This takes place after "If." I hope you guys like this one; it was an interesting topic to explore.

Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter, and even more to those of you who reviewed. It's always great to hear what you think.

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Eight: Secrets**

It felt disrespectful to come to the hospital without a gift, but now Bree felt the same unnatural aversion to flowers that she always did after a death. Whatever the social convention, it seemed wrong to commemorate the dead with such fragile beauty—beauty that would itself wither within a matter of days. The association would fade, of course; eventually she would return to her garden, fill her home with elegant buds, but at the moment she couldn't stomach the thought of buying an arrangement to bring to Lynette.

She'd taken food to the Scavos' home. Tom had accepted it with an emotional distance she hadn't expected from him, as though his grief had hardened his heart in some way. She'd been unaware of this side of him, and It made her wonder if his family realized the effort he put into raising their spirits, if Lynette realized how lucky she was to have someone who would set aside his own pain to try to make her smile. Because she knew the next time she saw them together, it would not be the Tom that stood before her with hurt in his eyes, but the one who would cajole his wife until she laughed.

It was inexplicable, how grief affected people. She wondered if people could see the marks of grief on her now; was it anything new, or just the reopening of old scars she thought long since healed? Was it something obvious, or a secret still hidden from the world? She expected it was the latter, that perhaps Susan was the only person who saw it because she was the only one who knew. Some part of her felt like this should have been a blessing in disguise; so few people knew about her relationship with Karl that she didn't think they would read the pain in her heart. It seemed like the sort of thing she would celebrate, the gift of grieving privately, but the truth was that she felt lonely.

No one was giving her food or flowers. No one held her hand or asked how she was doing. And in light of what had happened, it felt wrong to ask others to do those things for her. Not while Orson lay in the hospital, hurt and angry. Not while her friends dealt with their own grief: Lynette her own loss; Susan mourning the person once dearest to her and comforting her only daughter in her loss; Gaby faced with her deepest, long held fear that her children could be taken from her. It was too selfish to demand anything, and perhaps that was her punishment for her sins.

So she compromised by buying a poinsettia, hugging it with both arms as she approached Lynette's room, wondering if this plant was the worst concession she could make.

Lynette's room was filled with flowers. The smell was assaulting, the sight unbearable. But Bree put on a smile, stood with her inappropriate offering, and pretended that this wasn't just another reminder of the death and destruction that had changed all of their lives forever. "Hi," she said, nodding at the plant with the slightest acknowledgement before she cleared a place to set it. Next to the lilies—a flower that no amount of years could assuage her dislike—the poinsettia looked cheerful; what a horrid inconsistency. It struck her, suddenly, that this plant could go on living long past these other flowers; long past Christmas. This was why people brought flowers, so as not to leave the person with a constant reminder. She resisted the urge to throw the plant away; to not leave Lynette with this unending token from a time she would already struggle to move beyond.

Another mistake.

"Hi."

Lynette sounded exhausted in some unrecognizable way. As Bree crossed the room and sat down, she could see the weariness written across her friend's face, and it felt contrite when the next words out of her mouth were, "How are you doing?"

"I'm going home tomorrow. They've been monitoring the baby, and they say she's going to be fine."

It took Bree a moment to remember that there was another baby, the shock of this enormous secret Lynette had been keeping hitting her all over again. It felt wrong that something that should have been celebrated was hidden until it was too late. And now, even with another miracle to rejoice in, the wonder of it was marred by death.

They should have known. They should have had time for more than grief.

"I need to get out of here," Lynette continued. One of her hands picked at a loose thread on her blanket, an absentminded gesture that made Bree nervous. "I need to be busy again. Get my mind off of things."

"You're not going back to work?"

"Well, right now I don't even have a job. But no, even if I did, I'm done until the baby comes. The doctor wants me to take it easy."

The last word came out on a hitched breath, an oddity like the word hurt to say. Unhesitatingly, Bree reached out and took Lynette's hand, squeezing tightly. "Lynette?"

"It's—" She shook her head, fighting back tears, and with a deep breath, seemed to lessen them. "He's been telling me that since I found out, you know. Because of my age, and the fact that it is—was—twins again. But I didn't listen…I didn't think…"

"Lynette, this is not your fault."

"Yes it is," she said firmly. "It was my job to protect them, and I failed. There's no other way to look at it."

"Lynette—"

"Don't," she said quietly. "Please. I just…I needed to admit it to someone."

"Okay," whispered Bree, nodding in quiet acquiescence. She knew, without saying, that there was a reason Lynette had saved this for her. That she understood in some way that no one else could; that perhaps she was the only one who could quietly acknowledge this without fighting Lynette. It would be another secret her friend kept buried, and Bree, more than anyone, understood that need.

"I heard about Orson," said Lynette, drawing her hand away and surreptitiously wiping her eyes. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Yes." Bree cleared her throat, and tried to sound more certain. "They don't know the extent of the damage yet, but…"

"Bree?"

She shut her eyes, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking, pressing her lips together to try to keep the words from spilling out. She had no right to confess.

"Bree, are you okay?"

"I…" She took a deep breath, struggling to hold everything in, and losing the battle. "I had an affair. And now Orson may be paralyzed, and my marriage might be over, and…"

Lynette reached out her hand again, but Bree refused the comfort, feeling adamant in her self-afflicted guilt. Lynette was berating herself for something Bree was certain wasn't her fault, but she knew without asking that she was to blame for the destruction she had caused in her own life. She had hurt everyone: Karl, Orson, herself. There was no asking forgiveness for that.

"You heard about Karl?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Susan was here before the funeral, but…Oh, Bree. Karl?"

Bree nodded. "And that's the worst part. Orson…Orson didn't deserve any of this, and I hurt him, and still all I can think about how Karl is dead. And I miss him. I really, really miss him."

"You're allowed to grieve," said Lynette, granting permission just as Susan had. Still, it felt wrong. It felt like a privilege she was not allowed. "Bree, listen to me." She looked up, trying not to shy away from the frankness in Lynette's gaze, even though she felt the compulsion to hide. "You are allowed to grieve."

"But it's my fault."

Lynette gave her a soft, sad smile, and Bree felt a pang of kinship that she hadn't realized she'd been missing. She'd spent months lost in something that had separated her from her friends; she and Lynette both had. It was a sacrifice that she never should have made, not when her friendships were everything to her.

But here they were, brought back together.

Because now they shared the same secret.


	9. The End of the Story

**Disclaimer: **I make absolutely no claim to any of this.

**A/n: **Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I'm so glad you guys are enjoying these.

This one is for **StylishCandy**, who asked for a season three fic about Carlos and Edie. I hope you like it.

I'm still gladly accepting requests. Thank you so much to everyone who has already asked for something. This wouldn't be possible without you.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Nine: The End of the Story**

Edie prides herself on being self-aware.

She's sitting on a bench inside of the penguin habitat, taking a minute to enjoy the fact that it's cool in here despite the fact that there are so many people milling around. Travers is balanced precariously the bars separating the crowd from the penguins, Carlos standing behind him with a firm grip on his shoulder. It makes her smile in an appreciative way, like a stranger watching a father with his son. It's distant, the way she remains outside of them, the same way she always felt around Travers and his father, but it doesn't bother her. She's glad Travers has this. She takes pleasure in it.

It's the ability to recognize something like this that makes her feel comfortable in her own skin. She has no illusions that she's a perfect mother. There's no guilt about not living up to some impossible ideal. When she'd found out she was pregnant, she'd stood in front of her husband and told the truth: "I don't want to do this." Not that she couldn't, not that she was scared or worried or unsure, just the simple fact that she bore no innate desire to mother a child. But he'd wanted the baby—he had made it no secret that he wouldn't stay if she got rid of it—and at the time, she'd compromised.

It was the beginning of the end for them. Looking back on it now, she thinks she knew that even then, but there's nothing she can do to change it. She doesn't believe in regrets any way, and she does love Travers. It's just a simple fact that, like everything about her, that love defies social convention. And she has never cared about social convention.

Carlos looks back at her and grins, jerking his head in a "come here" gesture that she politely declines. But her heart beats at the sight of it, butterflies fluttering like mad in her stomach, and she can't deny that she's falling head-over-heels for him.

Self-awareness.

It comes with a price.

She wonders why Carlos is drawn to women who are never meant to be mothers when he so badly wants to be a father. She and Gaby aren't so different in that way—hell, children seem to be what tore her and Carlos apart—but Edie doesn't want things to end the same way for her. It's not going to be easy; Carlos looks most lovingly at her when she's a mother, and she knows it's on his mind. But she already made that mistake once, and she won't make it again.

It scares her. She's not sure Carlos will settle for being a part-time stepfather, even though she's sure her ex would give her more time with Travers if she just said the word. He's always trying to convince her that she could be a great mother if she'd just try. It's ridiculous how he looks at things with rose-colored glasses, though in her experience, most men do. Carlos certainly does.

Yes, the price of self-awareness is sometimes high. She can't hide in naiveté—not that she'd ever want to—and she can't pretend she doesn't know herself. Sometimes, though, it's hard to see that she's going to cost herself the things she wants most in the world, and she wonders what it would be like to be oblivious until those things smack her straight in the face. She imagines it would be akin to being Susan, a thought horrifying enough to remind her never to doubt herself.

She's not a victim. She'll face things head on, even if she knows it will end in chaos, and she won't weep at any point along the way.

Yes, she's proud of being self-aware.

"Edie," calls Carlos. He waves her over again, and this time Travers turns and calls for her as well. The pair of them is impossible to resist, and she finds herself pushing through the crowd until she's by Carlos' side.

"Mom, look at the penguins!"

"Yeah." She watches them, swimming some beautiful dance; watches Travers, beaming like he's never seen anything more satisfying. Without thinking, she ruffles his hair and then drops her hand, finding Carlos' and entwining their fingers.

"They're great," breathes Travers in awe.

Carlos nods and squeezes her hand. His eyes are on her, sparkling with a look she hasn't seen in years, one that makes her feel like a kid again.

This could be their life. This could be everything she's ever wanted. The only problem is, this isn't what she wants, and she can't compromise again. Not when the truth laughs at her, taunting her mercilessly, just as it always has.

She already knows the end of this story, and it isn't happily ever after.

The best she can do is enjoy it while it lasts.


	10. Past and Future

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I'm having a lot of fun writing these, so it's nice to hear what you think!

Tonight's fic is for **Anastasia**, who asked for a story about Annabel's point of view on Tom and Lynette. Takes place in season two, probably just a little before "One More Kiss."

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Ten: Past and Future**

Annabel was never so glad that she had a date for a wedding. Well, maybe her cousin Maggie's wedding, an unmitigated disaster because she'd been through a messy breakup with the best man and had had a fling with one of the other groomsmen, and the thought of showing up to that alone had made her sick to her stomach. But this affair was running a close second.

She really hadn't expected Tom Scavo to be at this wedding. Most people who quit their jobs didn't remain on good terms with their bosses, let alone stay close enough to be invited to the wedding of their boss' daughter. It confirmed the suspicion she'd long held that Lynette had given him an ultimatum—that she had been the reason he left a job he loved out of the blue. Unfortunately, if that was the case, it didn't outwardly appear to have done them any harm. They were dancing now, Lynette laughing in an uncharacteristically carefree way as Tom dipped her.

It was unfair. Unfair that they were here. Unfair that she was caught off guard. Unfair that she couldn't seem to stop watching them. Yes, the only saving grace was that she had a date.

Bobby wrapped an arm around the back of her chair, forcing her to turn her gaze away from the dance floor to focus on him. He wore a lazy, teasing smile as unvarying as the sun, and when he leaned in closer to her, she caught the lightest whiff of aftershave. It was nice; she'd never like men doused in overly heavy scents, ones that left her heady and slightly nauseated. If they danced tonight, she'd be able to hold him close, lay her head on his shoulder. It would be wonderful—sweet.

It would show Tom.

Annabel shut her eyes for a moment, swept up in guilt at the idea. It felt so wrong that the thought of dancing with her boyfriend was caught up in making her ex jealous. Worse, it was absolutely ridiculous that she cared one bit what Tom Scavo thought of her. They'd broken up almost a decade ago. Normal people moved on after ten years. Normal people didn't hold onto grudges like they were food for the soul.

_Stubborn as a mule_, she heard her grandmother's voice echo in her ear. As if Annabel hadn't inherited that trait from her, the woman who went to her grave still harboring a grudge against her childhood friend for supposedly stealing her pearl necklace. God only knew if that was even true, but her grandmother had gone to the afterlife still cursing Daisy Francis.

At this rate, Annabel would be doing the same with Tom and Lynette.

She reached out and ran a hand over Bobby's tie. It was one she'd bought him, a subtle pattern of blue and gray that brought out the color of his eyes. It was tasteful, unlike the garish one Tom was sporting, one that looked as though Christmas had thrown up on it. "Thank you for coming with me," she said, giving him a quick peck. "I know you skipped your office party for this."

"I should be thanking you for that. Which reminds me, you're holding up your end of the deal, right? I don't—"

"No, you don't have to come to my office party. I already promised."

"Good."

She smiled, dipping her head for a second and then looking up at him flirtatiously. Her hands continued to fiddle with his tie, absentmindedly drifting across his abs at the same time. No one could argue that Bobby wasn't an extremely good looking guy. "Dance with me," she said, not quite able to remove the question from her request. She couldn't help being coquettish; demands went against her nature. "Please."

Bobby sighed, but nodded, standing and taking her by the hand to lead her out to the dance floor. The music had changed to a slower tune, and as Bobby wrapped an arm around the small of her back and pulled her close, her heart seemed to somersault. It felt good being with someone who made her pulse race, who gave her butterflies and made her want to smile all the time. She knew he didn't deserve to be used as a pawn in this sick game she couldn't seem to quit, but as she laid her head on his shoulder, her eyes instantly sought out Tom.

She hadn't missed this, she realized suddenly. Nine months ago, when she'd come back to Fairview and found herself working with Tom again, there had been this initial thrill, a mystery of wondering how his life had turned out, if he was still as deliriously happy as he had been when she left. Some little part of her wanted him to be miserable, never mind the fact that not marrying Tom had been the best thing that could have happened to her. But he smiled when he talked about Lynette and his kids, whipping out pictures and bombarding her with stories, and she'd realized that he really was content. It had added a sudden pressure: the pressure to always look good and smile and act like her life was exactly what she wanted it to be because it felt too much like he had won and she had lost, even if it wasn't true. The satisfaction had come three months later, when she and Lynette had stumbled into each other's lives again.

It had been the victory she was looking for. This woman who her boyfriend had cheated on her with, the one who'd been on the fast-track at work, the one everyone respected and admired, was now a harried, jealous housewife. She'd liked getting under Lynette's skin; she'd liked how the tables had turned. And she had the very real impression that as obliviously happy as Tom was, Lynette wasn't quite so thrilled with how her life had turned out.

Annabel had treasured that realization. She'd held onto it for all these months, combining it with the delicious idea that Tom's sudden departure from Peterson had been due to some turmoil in their marriage. Maybe it was petty and vindictive, but Tom had broken her heart, and Lynette had gleefully held his hand as he did it. It had felt like closure. But now, in one night, everything she had been telling herself collapsed like a house of cards.

Lynette was glowing in Tom's arms. For all the attention Annabel was paying them, they both seemed oblivious to the rest of the world. Tom leaned forward, touching his forehead to Lynette's for a moment as he whispered something that made her smile, and then they kissed.

It was like seeing them together for the first time all over again. Their love written all over their faces, impenetrable and unyielding. Annabel knew that whatever chaos she had brought into their world six months ago, it had long since passed. She knew that whatever she had thought before, this was the truth of them.

She wished she didn't care so much.

Bobby kissed the top of her head, and Annabel pulled back to look up at him, shocked in some way by the look in his eyes, by the tenderness in their depths. "You look beautiful tonight," he said quietly. "Absolutely stunning."

Annabel leaned into him again, blushing and shutting her eyes.

She had to learn to block out the past, especially now that the future was here.


	11. Mr Toad's Wild Ride

**Disclaimer: **This is not mine in any way, shape or form.

**A/n: **This one is for **Natalie**, who asked for a story about the time Tom and Lynette got kicked out of Disney Land for lewd behavior. I might have gone a little overboard on this one; it turned out much longer than I expected. Also, this definitely veers toward an M-rating.

Continued thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I really can't express how much it means to me that you take the time to let me know what you think. I hope you all enjoy this one too.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Eleven: Mr. Toad's Wild Ride**

From where he stood behind her, Tom wrapped his arms around Lynette and dipped his head to press a quick flurry of kisses against the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Even though they were still surrounded by families with overexcited children, ones hyped up on sugar and the dizzying wonder of a day at Disney Land, for the first time all day, it felt like they weren't being watched. In the past, these little family vacations, sojourns planned by his parents that no one had much choice in attending, were fairly tolerable; Tom, being single and busy with work, would drop in for the weekend, spend a little time with his family and then return to his normal life. In the chaos and confusion of so many people, no one seemed to notice whether he was there or not. It had been a nice arrangement. But this year, even as he was still getting used to the weight of the ring on his finger, he and Lynette seemed to be some point of inescapable focus. His siblings foisted their kids off on them like an exercise in birth control—"Practice," his brother had joked while his son had tugged so hard on Tom's arm his shoulder nearly dislocated. His parents kept swooping in with the camera, pushing him and Lynette together in horrible, staged photographs that would undoubtedly make an unwelcome appearance in his mother's Christmas newsletter. It had been an exhausting, crowded morning—suddenly no one in his family comprehended the idea of "alone time"—so when the kids had started to whine that they were hungry, he and Lynette had staged an escape in the ensuing argument about where to eat.

"Mr. Toad's Wild Ride," Lynette had said with a wicked smile. Earlier his nephew, Riley, had thrown a near fit about riding it—something about not being able to see where the car went and not trusting any of the adults when they told him that it was not, in fact, a roller coaster. As per his mother's command, none of them would ride it if Riley felt so strongly. "The perfect place to hide."

It felt wonderful to touch her now. All day, the kids had been running interference, not even letting them hold hands as they continually grabbed hold to drag them here or there. Newlywed held no meaning to the under twelve crowd, and the adults didn't seem much more sympathetic. It was enough to make him forget that there were other families here.

"When do you think they'll notice we're gone?" asked Lynette, turning her head and exposing more of her neck for him to pepper with kisses. Her skin was slick with sweat, the heat intolerable and certainly not helped by the crowd.

"Hopefully never."

"Your mom is going to kill us."

"Eh. She'll forgive us someday. When we give her another grandchild."

"Seven aren't enough?"

Tom laughed, squeezing her a little tighter and then regrettably refocusing his gaze downward. In front of them, a child no more than six stood staring at them like they were fascinating. She licked a lollipop that was as big as her face, making her seem almost creepy as her gaze remained unwavering. Reluctantly, Tom loosened his grip, leaning back on the bar that kept the line orderly and reaching for Lynette's hand as a compromise. She turned to him, raising a questioning eyebrow, and he gestured subtly to their voyeur.

"They're everywhere," muttered Lynette, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "And you want to have four of them."

"Right now I don't want any." He straightened up, leaning toward her until he was close enough to whisper into her ear. "But I wouldn't mind practicing a little."

"Isn't that what your siblings have been trying to make us do all day?" she quipped.

He smiled, setting his hands on her hips and dropping his voice even lower. "I meant practice _making_ a baby."

"Ooh, well you should have said so."

"What do you think? After this, you and me and that Jacuzzi bathtub in our hotel room?"

Her hands skated over his abs to his back and then briefly down to squeeze his ass, and it was only as he sucked her earlobe into his mouth that he remembered they had an audience. Groaning, he stepped back again, and Lynette let out a frustrated sigh. "Your mother really will kill us," she said seriously. "This is 'family time,' remember?"

"I hate my family."

"Welcome to my world."

Ahead of them, a woman snapped, "Annie, it's our turn," and Tom glanced back at the little girl just in time to see her mother drag her toward the makeshift car. As they rattled out of sight through the doors that had so terrified his nephew earlier, Tom's nerves began to tingle in anticipation. Finally, after this interminable day and equally long line, they were about to be secluded in a tiny car on a dark ride, no family or kids or strangers. He had no doubt that he was suddenly as excited as the most hyperactive child here.

Their car clamored forward on the track, the bored employee waving them forward and halfheartedly warning them to keep their limbs inside the vehicle. There was a jerk as the car got going again, they rounded a bend and the doors opened.

They turned to each other simultaneously, Tom just catching a glimpse of what seemed to be a badger in a library, and then his mouth crashed against Lynette's, his hand wending into her hair and pulling her as close as possible. Blindly, she climbed into his lap, opening her mouth under his and instantly upgrading their kiss from hot to just plain dirty. His tongue snaked over hers, her moan getting lost in his mouth, and he dropped his left hand to the bare skin of her leg and skated upward until his fingers wriggled under the hem of her shorts. He felt like it had been weeks since he'd touched her, not hours ago when they'd made love in the early morning light of their hotel room. He couldn't explain this nearly compulsive need to be with her, the euphoria that seemed to overpower any rational thought or action. Whatever it was, they could now add amusement park ride to the list of inappropriate places they'd made out.

Lynette began to tug on the hem of his t-shirt; her fingers scraped over his stomach, causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise, his dick straining uncomfortably against his shorts. It didn't help that the car kept jerking around corners, whipping them around in a dizzying fashion and causing Lynette to shift on his lap. It made the friction almost unbearable, if only because there was nothing he could do about it, but Lynette seemed to derive some evil pleasure from it. She tightened the grip of her thighs around his legs, grinding her hips into his and releasing a guttural moan as they turned another corner and were pressed even closer together.

Unhinged, Tom moved his hand up her tank top, mimicking her fingers' movements over his abs and then making his way up to cup her breast. She released his mouth and began to leave a trail of wet, sloppy kisses down his neck. Her tongue brushed over his Adam's apple, her teeth scraped against his pulse point, and in return, he moved his hand from her thigh to the crotch of her shorts, insistently rubbing his fingers against her. Suddenly they were whirled into a world of flashing lights, a bizarre effect that seemed to heighten every little movement. Lynette arched her back, and Tom scraped his thumb over her nipple, leaning forward and beginning his own exploration of her neck, nipping and licking at every sensitive patch of skin.

They were abruptly jerked into another room, plunged into near darkness again, and Lynette's hands fumbled with the fly of his shorts. She unzipped them quickly, drawing him out and stroking him base to tip with firm, capable fingers. It felt electrifying, her touch combined with the thrilling movement of the ride: everything seemed faster, less certain, more intense. He groaned and bit down on her shoulder, nearly losing it as she began to buck against his hand. From her mouth came a string of curses, a beautiful litany that spoke to the fact that she was about to lose control. He kissed her again, hard, and moved his hand to begin to work at the clasp of her bra.

Out of nowhere, there was a blast of warm air, a burst of light so natural that Tom flinched against its intrusion. Lynette winced as well, drawing back from him, and then suddenly, she began to curse again. Somehow, it had lost its sexiness and taken on more of a panicked feel. "Oh fuck! Oh Tom! Fuck!"

She zipped up his fly so quickly that he recoiled. "What the hell?" he swore as she climbed off of his lap. He opened his eyes, squinting against the sudden sunshine, and his stomach dropped to his feet. "Oh fuck."

The ride had come to a very abrupt, unpleasant end. There was no question now that all eyes were on them; parents with various expressions of shock and disgust—maybe even a few with amusement-were glaring at them and shielding their children's eyes. Nearby, an employee was radioing security, the only sound in the room other than the echoes of the music behind them.

Lynette was blushing furiously; neither of them embarrassed easily, but he too could feel the heat rising in his neck, all the way up to his ears. She exited the car, and he followed, almost physically pained by his erection, though facing this crowd did feel like a very cold bucket of water thrown on him. Silently, they followed the employee out of the ride and sat down on a bench to wait like naughty school children about to face their principal. Lynette dropped her face into her hands, muttering to herself; he didn't need to hear her to know exactly what she was saying.

Security arrived quickly. Tom wasn't surprised. This was probably a high point in their day; he doubted this was an oft-radioed request: come deal with the adults molesting each other on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. The thought was almost enough to make him smile. Almost.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to escort you from the park," the guard said curtly. If he was amused, it was hidden behind the lenses of his sunglasses. "This is unacceptable behavior. We're a family park."

"Yeah, we get it," said Lynette curtly. "We'll go."

"I'm going to have to escort you."

Lynette lifted her head and gave the guard a look that Tom was too familiar with. Anxious not to cause more of a scene than they already had, he stood, pulling Lynette up with him. "That's fine. We understand. We aren't going to cause any more trouble. Right, Lynette?"

She had the grace to look chastised. "Yeah," she agreed sullenly. She pulled her arm from his grip, apparently eager to put some distance between them during this walk of shame. Her wish wasn't granted. The guard put a hand on each of their shoulders and began to propel them toward the exit, giving people even more cause to stare at them.

"Your mother really is going to kill us now," said Lynette, apparently indifferent to the fact that they had an audience. "God, Tom…Your whole family is here. What are they going to think? Oh my God. This is going to be one of those stories that gets told again and again for the rest of our lives, isn't it? What the hell were we thinking?"

"Honey, will you relax? Please." Despite how much he wanted to look down, away from all of these prying eyes, he felt desperate to keep a look out for his family. Lynette wasn't wrong when she said they wouldn't live this down. "Someday we're going to find this really funny." So long as his mother never, ever found out about it.

"I really doubt that, Tom."

He suddenly doubted it too. Twenty feet ahead, stood his family, lined up on the side of Main Street. There was a parade at two, he remembered belatedly. And his parents would be obsessive about getting a good spot to watch. "Fuck," he swore under his breath, and the security guard tightened his grip on his shoulder in some kind of warning.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

Tom shut his eyes as they passed, hoping briefly that his family wouldn't see; it was still crowded; there was always a chance. Unfortunately, whatever little luck he had, had apparently run out. He heard his mother call his name, Lynette audibly groaned next to him, and he turned and called out, "It's okay. I'll explain later. We'll see you at the hotel." His mother's mouth dropped open, and Tom's last glimpse of her was as she turned and grasped his father's arm with a look of pure horror on her face. Lynette was right; she was going to kill them.

Feigning an acceptance he didn't feel, Tom turned back to Lynette with a sheepish look on his face. "See…" he said, giving a slight shrug. "Hilarious." She stared at him, unsmiling, while he focused on keeping his sudden nausea under control. "I guess this means we better have that baby now, huh?"

Then again, if the death glare Lynette was giving him now was any indication, maybe she'd kill him first.


	12. Infinitely

**Disclaimer: **It is never going to be mine. We all know that by now, right?

**A/n: **Tonight's fic is for **Meg,** who asked for an additional scene from the season four finale. This takes place after Bob and Lee's wedding, resolving the story for Tom and Lynette.

Thank you so much to all of you who have requested stories so far. This wouldn't be possible without you guys. That said, there are still eight requests left for this month, so please let me know if you have one (or another one). Also, all of my gratitude to those of you who have been reviewing; your feedback is invaluable to me.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twelve: Infinitely**

"There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere."

Lynette folded her legs underneath her, the porch swing rocking as she did, and directed an incredulously quirked eyebrow at her husband as he walked toward her. "Yeah. Home is the last place I'd look for you too."

"I see this exhausting week hasn't ebbed your sarcasm."

"Sorry."

"It's okay." He leaned back against the railing with his legs crossed, the muscles in his arms tense and well-defined as they supported his weight. She let her eyes drift lazily over his body, appreciating the ease and effortlessness of his stance, the strength that seemed to emanate from him tonight. She couldn't remember a time she hadn't been attracted to him; he was one of those guys who wasn't aware of how good he looked, and that unaffected modesty was one of the sexiest things about him. "What?" he asked, lifting one of his feet and tapping the swing so she slowly moved back and forth.

"Nothing. You look good."

"If you think you can butter me up to get out of clean-up duty…"

"I could do that with my eyes closed. But really I was just thinking…You're easy on the eyes, you know that?"

Tom pushed himself away from the railing, stepping toward her and leaning down to press a soft kiss to her lips. She reached up and caught his cheeks between both of her hands, holding him captive for an extra beat in the moment. His nose brushed hers as he pulled back, and she smiled softly. "You okay?" he asked; his breath was warm against her cheek, a subtle reminder that a chill had descended in the early spring night.

"I'm okay. I'm feeling…"

She trailed off, unable to end the sentence. Tom sat down next to her on the swing, and she turned and put her feet in his lap. It was one of those times where the breadth of what she felt was too much to put into words; one of those times that she thought she might laugh and cry at once; one of those times that she simply wanted to curl into her husband and hope that he could absorb how much he loved her. Why did it seem that she always lost her voice whenever the most important things needed to be said?

"Your feet are cold." He wrapped his hands around them protectively. "You shouldn't be sitting out on a night like this. It's chilly."

"I didn't notice," she said truthfully. The whirlwind of this day had dissipated into a night where time seemed to stand still. She'd escaped from the wedding when the sun had dipped below the rooftops, disappearing into a soft, slow world even as the party continued down the street. It was strange how she had become this person—one who needed the chance to breathe and step back and watch the world go by; all her life she'd been tightly wound, fraught with energy and an endless need to throw herself into the chaos. This past year had broken that need in her, not completely, but enough that she found herself desperate for these chances to escape every so often. Tiredly, she laid her head against the chain of the swing and sighed. "You shouldn't worry about me so much."

Tom gave her a look carved of disbelief, one that made her heart ache just a little. He'd changed this year too. The way he looked at her had changed, not in any way she could explain or pinpoint, but still in some way that spoke volumes to her. She felt more fragile now, which made no sense seeing that she'd fought and won the hardest battle of her life. Seeing Tom look at her this way only reinforced that newfound breakability. Most of the time, she found herself rebelling against it, acting harder or colder than ever before to hide it; tonight, though, it didn't hurt so badly. It couldn't. Not after Tom had exposed his own fissures today, revealing his own thoughts and fears and feelings so brazenly that no one could have accused him of being weak.

She hadn't realized how much he had been keeping inside. Tom wore his heart on his sleeve. He was the one who had reminded her time and again that it was okay to be emotional sometimes. Yet somehow, he had spent months holding back from her, and she had no idea why. Why was he suddenly afraid to let her see him? Was she so raw and broken that he'd adopted her pretended strength? Didn't he realize she saw his greatest strength as reminding her that it was okay to be human?

"Do you think we're ever going to go back to normal?" she asked quietly.

There was a long pause as Tom stared out at the darkening street. She studied his profile, her heart quickening in some unspoken anxiety. "No," he said, slowly turning his gaze back to her. "We've changed."

"I know."

"It's okay." He gently squeezed her feet, his thumbs running over the arches. "That's part of life, right?"

"It scares me." The world tumbled from her mouth without thought, a rare open confession that made her stomach flip over; for a second, she squeezed her eyes shut, letting a sudden bout of vertigo pass before she opened them again. "Doesn't it scare you?"

"I don't know. I worry. I worry about the kids. I worry about you…You don't smile as much anymore."

"I worry about how much you're worrying. You've always been the optimist…the dreamer…"

"I still am. But God, almost losing you this year, realizing I could lose you…"

She nodded. It was a fear she understood, one she knew wouldn't fade no matter how much time went by, one that she shared. That was what had changed them, probably forever. There was no way for her to undo that, no matter how much she longed to.

"We're going to be okay," said Tom, pulling her back before she got lost in her own anxieties. It felt inexplicably good to have him ground her. "Whatever else happens, nothing is ever going to change the way I feel about you."

She sat up, wrapping one arm around her knees and reaching out to take hold of his shirt with the other. She pulled him forward until his forehead rested against hers, and shut her eyes, reveling in him. Everything about him: everything she loved and everything that drove her crazy; everything she ever felt for him; everything she ever would feel for him. "I love you."

When he kissed her, she could feel the words returned infinitely, from now until the day she died.


	13. Beautiful

**Disclaimer: **It absolutely isn't mine.

**A/n: **Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I so greatly appreciate the feedback. And a huge thanks as well to those of you who requested stories! I'm looking forward to writing them.

Speaking of, goodness, this one spiraled out of control. I thought this would be short and sweet, but here we are three hours later, at almost 2000 words. I attribute this wholeheartedly to how much I miss Tom and Lynette, both as a couple and as the individual characters I fell in love with. Writing these early fics reminds me why I can't buy into the version of them currently on TV—to me, they will always be the couple I fell in love with in season one. Consider this a bit of a tribute to what I still believe them to be, deep down.

This is for **Aubrey, **who asked for a fic dealing with Lynette's doubts about motherhood. I have dabbled in this subject before, but I find it fascinating, and I love doing character pieces about Lynette. I did tweak it a bit, though; instead of taking place while she's pregnant, this takes place a few weeks after the twins are born. I hope you all enjoy.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Thirteen: Beautiful**

The alarm clock blared that morning with its usual preciseness, though it seemed like perhaps its three week vacation had made it more annoying. "Revenge!" it seemed to scream with every beep, and then, as Tom blearily rolled over and squinted at the clock, it began to laugh at him ten times more quickly, flashing a red light and daring him to ignore its warning that it was time to get up. He slapped it angrily and it skidded across the nightstand onto the floor, mercifully shutting up.

Work was far from his mind; after three weeks at home, it seemed unfair to suddenly have to go back to the humdrum routine of daily life, not when he had two brand new babies at home, not when his heart and soul seemed to reside solely within the walls of this house. Tiredly, he rolled back onto his other side and reached out toward his wife, seeking her warmth like a moth drawn to a flame, but only mildly surprised to find her side of the bed cold and empty. For a second, he felt a pang of guilt—they'd agreed to take turns getting up with the kids, a resolution he'd had difficulty keeping—and then he remembered that she'd told him not to worry about it last night. "You have to go back to work tomorrow," she muttered exhaustedly, pecking him on the lips and snuggling into bed. "Consider this a one night pass."

The memory was not comforting. Right now, he would have traded the good night's sleep for another day off of work. Feeling whiny, he burrowed his head into the pillow and groaned loudly. "I have to go to work today. Ugh."

No one responded, not even the alarm clock, and the silence seemed to resign him to his fate. He tossed the covers off, shivering in the cold, and yawned as he bent to pick up the alarm clock. "5:03," it read, and Tom rolled his eyes. Clearly, Lynette hadn't trusted him to wake up at a reasonable time on his own; he wondered at what point in the night she'd hijacked the alarm and changed his wake-up time. For a second, he debated whether to reset it for his normal time and go back to bed, but it felt prudent to enjoy these extra few hours of consciousness with his children. Standing and grabbing his bathrobe, he stumbled out of the room and down the hall to the nursery, wearily rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

They'd painted the nursery blue, which maybe felt clichéd in the daylight, but in the dark of night, with the soft glow of the nightlight illuminating it in a spectrum of warmth and color, it turned into a different world. To Tom, stepping into this room while the rest of the world was asleep always felt like a moment made of magic, like falling into a place where nothing could ever go wrong. All the safety and love anyone could ever need wrapped up within four walls.

The door was open as he approached, that lovely light spilling into the hall, but Tom paused in the doorway, heart inexplicably caught in his throat. As he'd suspected he would, he'd found Lynette, but she must have left him a while ago. Now she sat in the rocking chair fast asleep, Preston cradled in her arms quietly exploring the world with his huge, wondrous eyes. The sight of them was beautiful in a way that almost hurt: her lips slightly parted; hair falling around her face in the most untamed of curls; looking so natural and content with their child in her arms that it took his breath away.

Their camera had earned a permanent home in the nursery, a tool that suddenly seemed invaluable now that every moment was worth capturing, and Tom didn't hesitate to steal it from the dresser now. He wasn't sure that Lynette would see what he saw looking at this picture, but the need he felt to capture this moment forever eclipsed any rational thought. Even now, he knew it was an image he would replay in the loneliest moments of his life.

He snapped the picture, the flash flaring obnoxiously in the dim room, and he felt guilty when Lynette stirred, lifting her head and opening her eyes as though she'd been startled. "Sorry," he apologized before she even registered that he was in the room. He set down the camera as she pressed her fingers to her eyes and yawned. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," she murmured, eyes fluttering like she was still half-asleep. "I must have dozed off."

"Why don't you go back to bed? I'm up now, and you're exhausted."

"I couldn't sleep."

Tom smiled, almost laughed, at what seemed to be the most contrary statement he'd ever heard. "Yeah," he joked, "you look wide awake."

She shut her eyes, slightly rocking the chair to the rhythm of some unsung lullaby. "Every time I'd start to drift off, my mind would start going a million miles a minute, and I'd be wide awake again. I came in here so I wouldn't wake you."

"You've been in here all night?"

"Yeah."

The room held its breath as he paused, just watching her as she shifted Preston in her arms and continued to smoothly lull the chair back and forth. Her emotions were unnaturally close to the surface right now anyway, but this close to exhaustion, her barriers were nonexistent. He could see the worry pressed into her brow, in the way her mouth turned down, and his heart seemed to crack at the sight of it. "Beautiful, what's wrong?"

For a moment, she stilled, body frozen like his words had stopped time. Then she broke, face crumpling as she leaned forward and laid a hand over her eyes. She sobbed, and in an instant, Tom was at her side, rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back. "Sweetie?" She pressed her face into his torso, crying muffled by his bathrobe, but he indulged her for only a minute before he slowly kneeled down to meet her eyes. She dropped her gaze, shaking her head and wiping her eyes, but when he cupped her cheek, her movements stilled. "Lynette?"

"I can't do this," she said, the words coming out on hitched, hysterical breaths. Preston, seemingly sensing this change in attitude, began to fuss, waving his arms in the air and mewling plaintively. "Tom, I can't do this."

"Do what?"

"This!" She gestured wildly to the room. "I can't…I'm not ready for this!"

Startled, Preston decided to match his mother's tears; combined, they broke some calm in the room, robbing it of any serenity it held. Unconsciously, Lynette began to bounce the baby in her arms, soothing him so naturally that Tom wondered how she could be so blind to herself. "Lynette, you've been doing great. Beyond great."

"But you've been here. I can't do this on my own. I'm not ready. I don't know how to do this."

"Yeah, you do." He brushed her hair away from her face, pushing it back and letting his fingers graze over her ear down to her neck. His thumb ran lightly over her pulse point, just skimming the soft skin there, trying to calm her as she shook her head frustration. "Honey, I don't know what to say to convince you that you can do this. You're a fantastic mom."

"No I'm not. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, thinking I could do this. I can't. I'm not cut out for this. And I knew that, but no, I just went ahead and got pregnant. And there's two of them, Tom. They outnumber me…I don't—"

"Hey, hey, hey," he interrupted, realizing that this was quickly escalating into a full-blown meltdown. Lynette was not one for hysterics, and he suddenly felt as helpless as she was claiming to be. He had no idea how to fix this. "Sweetie, you need to calm down."

She shook her head again, too emotional speak, and he took advantage of her sudden muteness. "Yeah. You need to listen to me: you are going to be fine. I know that right now you feel overwhelmed, but you've got to remember, you've already been a mother to them for almost a year."

"No—"

"Yeah, you have. You've been taking care of them and protecting them and loving them since the minute you found out you were pregnant. No one else could have done that."

To his relief, Lynette's sobbing ebbed, her breathing still coming thick and unsteady, but her body relaxing, the stress and tautness in her visibly lessening. Still, he felt incompetent, raw in his inability to make her understand that she was meant for this. It was like she couldn't see her own magnanimity, her inexplicable capacity for love that he knew was born of the fact that she'd been so starved for it her whole life. It was greatest gift she could give their children, and she wasn't even aware of it.

"I know you can do this," he said firmly. "Maybe you can't believe me right now, but I have absolutely no doubt in my mind. You are going to be brilliant."

"You promise?"

The anxiety in his chest assuaged rapidly, and he nodded. "Yes, I promise."

She leaned forward, kissing him several times in quick succession and then wrapping her free arm around his back to hug him tightly. But he could feel her tears, wet against his neck, her breath still shuddery. "You are the only woman in the world I want to raise my children with," he said, dipping his head and pressing a kiss against her neck. "You know that?"

She pulled back, nodding and wiping her eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"It's a good thing you're stuck with me for life, then."

Lynette smiled, and he breathed a sigh of relief, settling back into his comfort zone, thankful that they'd shifted into more familiar territory. He was so used to her confidence, her strength and visage of unbreakability, that it broke his heart to see her fall apart. But he knew, even if he never succeeded at anything else in his life, at least he had loved her better than anyone else in the world. And he would keep on loving her, protecting her, for the rest of his life.


	14. A Celebration

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **This is for **Bianca**, who asked for a Gaby/Bree friendship fic. This takes place during the five year jump while Gaby is pregnant with Juanita.

Continued thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing! We're over halfway through!

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Fourteen: A Celebration**

"Bree!"

Gaby pounded on the door again, careful to wrap her hand into a tight fist this time so she didn't chip another nail. She'd been beating on the door for almost ten minutes, but the lack of a response wasn't a deterrent. She knew Bree was home, unlike her other traitor friends, and she couldn't avoid Gaby forever.

"Bree! I know you're home! I know what you're doing in there! Open up!"

"I'm in the middle of something right now," came Bree's voice, muffled by the door. It was like she knew Gaby would get inside even if she opened the door a crack. "Come back in four hours!"

"What the hell are you in the middle of that takes four hours?"

"…Cleaning…the oven…I can't hear you!"

"Oh for God's sake," muttered Gaby. She grasped the doorknob, shocked when it turned easily in her hand, and without hesitation, pushed open the door. For a second, it flew open, and then Bree tried to slam it shut, leaning her weight against it in an attempt to keep Gaby out. Gaby's reflexes were honed, though, and she threw her shoulder against the frame, matched evenly in a contest of wills usually employed by small children. "Are you serious, Bree? I'm seven months pregnant!"

The door suddenly flew open, and Gaby tripped into the foyer. Miraculously, Bree caught her mid-fall, hooking her arms under Gaby's armpits, but the momentum was too great. Together they slid to the floor, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and both struggling to get back on their feet. Bree recovered first, of course; she wasn't the one rolling around like a turtle on her back, but as she clamored to her feet and attempted to block the view of her living room, Gaby just let out a sigh and collapsed against the floor. "Bree," she said, resigned to the fact that she was trapped until her friend helped her up, "you're not six feet wide. I can see your living room."

Bree glanced over her shoulder, somehow surprised that she hadn't obscured the view of the array of pink balloons and flowers that had overtaken her living room. Reluctantly, she lowered her arms. "We were trying to surprise you," she sighed. She reached down and pulled Gaby up until she was sitting on the floor, and then she sat down on the steps behind her. "How did you find out?"

"My aunt called to ask me for directions."

"The invitation explicitly said that it was a surprise."

"It did?"

"It should have. I knew I shouldn't have put Susan in charge of invitations."

Gaby shook her head. "I told you guys that I didn't want a baby shower."

"I know, but—"

"No, Bree, no 'buts.' I threatened physical violence. Does not mean anything to you people anymore?"

"As I recall, you, Susan and Lynette threw me a shower last year even though I asked you not to. How is this any different?"

"Because, Bree!"

Bree nodded, patting Gaby's shoulder in an annoyingly dismissive way. "Well I'm convinced. I'll just call everyone right now and tell them it's all off."

"Good," sniped Gaby. She grabbed onto the banister, using it as leverage to get to her feet. As she did, she caught sight of a huge "It's a girl!" banner, and brusquely turned her head from the sight. "That's all I wanted."

Her friend gave a long-suffering sigh. "Come on, Gaby. You'll eat some cake, make some small talk. I promise we didn't plan any games. And there's presents!"

"I don't want any presents!"

Bree's eyes widened. "Okay, now I'm concerned. The Gabrielle Solis I know would never turn down presents. What is going on?"

"Bree…" Gaby ran her hand over her belly; the baby was kicking wildly, probably spurned by the adrenaline pumping through Gaby's veins. The activity soothed her, calming her anger and her fears at once. "Carlos and I...We're not tempting fate this time."

"What are you talking about?"

"We've lost three babies already," said Gaby steadily. She refused to let her emotions get the better of her. For months now, she and Carlos had had quiet, unemotional conversations, pretending that this didn't mean everything to them. She wasn't about to break down now. "Our marriage fell apart under the strain of that. So we're not…We're not getting our hopes up this time."

"Gaby…"

"I'm serious, Bree. I don't want presents. I don't want baby booties and onesies and a high chair. I don't want Susan's help painting the nursery. I don't want any of it until this baby is in my arms."

"Oh Gaby." The sympathy in Bree's voice made Gaby's hands shake uncontrollably. She could feel the façade of happiness that she'd been wearing for months now cracking and blistering, but she held to it desperately, her only lifeline. Even as Bree wrapped her arms around her, hugging her tightly, Gaby refused to break down. "You're allowed to celebrate this. You should celebrate this."

"I don't want to get my hopes up again."

Bree pulled back to look at her; Gaby could see the concern in her eyes, but beneath that a shade of faith that she envied wholeheartedly. That was why it had been impossible to talk to her friends about this. Their faith was absolute and unscathed, and while they might comprehend how she felt, they couldn't truly believe in it. None of them had ever lost a baby.

"Gaby, I know you don't want to hear this, but your hopes were raised the second you found out you were pregnant. And it doesn't matter if you get ready for the baby or not. That's not going to change how you feel about her."

Gaby shut her eyes, forbidding herself to cry; her stubbornness failed her. The tears she'd kept at bay for months leaked out unbidden. "We haven't even discussed baby names," she confessed quietly. "Bree, you have no idea…"

Bree nodded. "You're right. And if you want us to call this off, we will. I think this might be good for you, though."

Gaby glanced into the living room again, taking in the elaborate effort her friends had made for her this day. The baby was still moving, insistent in reminding her that she was a part of this moment. Bree was right; whatever Gaby said or did, however much she denied it, this baby was already an inexorable part of her life. Whatever happened, celebrating her was not going to change that fact.

"I didn't register."

Bree grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her tightly. "That's okay. We told everyone to include gift receipts."

"Aw," said Gaby, tearing up all over again. "You really are the best friends a girl could ask for."


	15. First Step Back

**Disclaimer: **There is no doubt that this does not belong to me. Double negatives are fun.

**A/n: **This is for **Adii1201**, who I owe tons of thanks for helping to keep me sane over the past seven months of obsessing over this show. I really appreciate it. This is an AU from the season seven finale, based on the idea that Tom and Lynette wouldn't have broken up if they'd had sex. Or, you know, maybe if they had actually talked to each other. Takes place after the end of the episode.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing and requesting (the true three "r's"). There are two spots left for requests this month, so please let me know if there's anything else you'd like to see.

Enjoy!

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Fifteen: First Step Back**

Belatedly, it occurred to Lynette that this was not a normal way to begin a separation.

She'd always known that she was less conventional than she appeared, but this night had made everything about her existence up to this point seem downright normal. Never mind that an hour ago, she and her friends had stuffed a body into a trunk—_not thinking about that now…not admitting it…it never, ever happened—_right now her husband had her pinioned against the doorframe of her friend's bedroom door, her skirt bunched around her waist as he fucked her without abandon. It felt like something out of a dream: Tom's breath hot against her neck, his hands firm and thick against her thighs, her head spinning in some celestial world as he thrust in and out of her. She gasped as he slammed into her particularly hard, her spine jabbing uncomfortably against the doorframe, not even really caring because it felt amazing—_he_ felt amazing—and this was crazy and reckless and stupid and a thousand other things that sex with Tom had never been before, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ she was going to self-combust.

Tom lifted his neck and pressed a sloppy kiss to her lips, and she wrapped one arm loosely around his neck as she lost any and all awareness of him, herself, the entire world around them. Her legs tightened around his waist, her moans scarcely muffled by his mouth, her body reacting involuntarily to the intensity of her pleasure. She wished this moment could stretch on forever, spreading wildly until it engulfed the world, the sky, the stars, the sun; until the universe ceased to exist except for her and him and this feeling. Tom's hips hitched erratically against hers, his groan echoing thickly in the quiet room, perhaps the most garishly beautiful sound she'd ever heard. Slowly he stilled against her, leaning his weight into her, keeping her trapped between the warmth of his body and the door. His lips danced haphazardly across her skin, and she felt like she was breaking into a million little pieces that could never be put back together.

The drop back to earth was harsh.

In the aftermath of sex, she always felt languid; euphoria stretching her soul and feelings like they were too big to remain in her body. With Tom, no matter if they were fighting or giddy or apologetic or loving or sad, that feeling always made the whole world seem brighter and more alive; everything was always better after they made love. Tonight, though, she felt lost, full of questions, uncertain and scared—like everything she'd been feeling before this moment had suddenly expanded and threatened to swallow her whole.

She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, hiding from him, tears already pooling in her eyes so that when she squeezed them shut, they fell like raindrops splattering his shirt. As though this feeling was infectious, Tom seemed to lose whatever strength he'd had, and he sank slowly to the floor; he slipped out of her as he did, but she kept her legs wrapped around his waist, curling into his lap. She clung to him with both arms as one of his tightened around her back, the other cupping the back of her head and stroking her hair. He was still pressing kisses against face and neck, but they were raw with need now, almost desperate, and it only made her tears come faster.

Somehow, she could not follow the trail of events that had led them to this moment. Everything seemed jumbled, moments of their life together flashing in front of her and not making any sense. Tom had taken that job—she had forced him to take it—and some snatch remembrance of loneliness and confusion that she couldn't attach a specific memory to. Earlier, that feeling of relief when he had gone, relief from the anxiety of when, when, when will it happen?, but secretly longing for nothing more than a chance to fix it all. And tonight, overwhelmed as she felt, all she had wanted to do was escape for a few minutes, but he had followed her up here with some kind of regret in his eyes…Had they even said anything, or had he just kissed her? Maybe she had kissed him…

She couldn't fit the pieces back together.

Tonight, yesterday, the past few months were a blur, and all of it was overpowered by the enormity of twenty-three years together. This one fragment of their marriage was disjointed—like she was looking at it through a frozen window—and all she could see clearly were things that had no purpose in this moment. Tom building sandcastles with their kids at the beach, and the time he kissed her under the mistletoe at that Christmas party at work, and remembering the way he smiled at her when she surprised him with that weekend away for their anniversary. Hugs and laughter and tears and snapshots of their entire life together cascading through her mind as though they had any part in what had just happened. It made it impossible to figure out what the hell they were doing; the last thread of her sanity was lost.

"Don't let me go." Tom's nose pressed against the side of her head as he whispered the words into her ears, begging her in some broken voice that didn't belong to her husband. "Please don't let me go."

She still couldn't look at him; she could barely process his words. Time had ceased to exist. "Do you remember carrying me to bed when I was so, so sick from the chemotherapy that I couldn't walk? Do you remember?"

"Lynette…"

"That time you rushed home because Parker had appendicitis, and I was scared out of my mind? Those hot summer days out on your boat and that one time you got sunburned so badly? Our first kiss?"

"I remember," he breathed, lips pressing against her ear. "I do. I remember."

"I can remember everything but how we got here. Tom, I don't know how we got here."

He was rocking her now, cradling her like a child, but she wasn't sure if the action was meant to soothe her or himself. Even in his arms, she felt cold, her body clammy and shivering in the warm summer evening, the sweat from their earlier activities dried stickily against her body. Her mind was still urgently attempting to make some sense of this, and was continually denied by the onslaught of memories. "How are we going to find our way back if we don't know how we got here?"

Tom gave a little tug on her elbow, pulling her arm until she unwrapped it from his back, and then he entwined their fingers until they were embraced like a couple dancing with no movement. She couldn't count the number of times he'd held her hand. Taking walks together in those early weeks of their relationship; as they'd walked down the aisle together after their wedding; when she found out she was pregnant; the day she told him she was going to quit her job; when she found out she had cancer; every time she'd needed him…

"Don't let me go," he said again. "Lynette, I swear, I made the biggest mistake of my life tonight, but you have to forgive me. Please…Please don't lose faith in us."

"You already did."

"It was one moment…One moment I am going to regret from now until the day I die, and I know…I know what that doubt means to you, but please…I'm asking you to be stronger than I am. You've always been stronger…"

She hadn't. She wasn't. Right now, she didn't feel strong at all. She felt small and pathetic and completely lost, and she wasn't sure that one apology, one moment of passion, one hope made up for the pain in her heart. Wouldn't this feel more right if it did? Wouldn't everything be fixed? Wouldn't she be laughing instead of crying?

"We're lost." It took her a moment to realize that he had been the one to say it. The thought still raced through her own mind unfathomably. "But if we leave each other, we're never going to find our way home."

It felt like a key unlocking a door, one that she opened to finally discover a light far off in the distance, calling to her. Home. Together. She needed him to find her way back; he needed her. If they went down separate paths now, how would they ever make it back home?

She lifted her head. Tom was crying, tears rolling down his cheeks, heart visibly broken in his eyes. She leaned in and kissed him, letting her words breathe life back into him.

"Don't go," she said.

And they took their first step back.


	16. The Lights

**Disclaimer: **It is most definitely not mine.

**A/n: Lilly S. **re-requested a story about Karl and Bree in Vegas, so this is for everyone who asked for that last spring. I hope you all enjoy it; sorry for the wait.

To RoxyAnn: I am really going to try to do your request, but I'm honestly not sure if I'll be able to pull it off successfully. The M-rated fics are probably the most difficult ones for me to write, and I don't have the same investment in Bree/Karl that I do in Tom/Lynette. I will give it a shot, but just in case, would you like to request a back-up?

Well, y'all, I am at exactly 24 requests, which takes me up to my goal. If anyone still wants to request anything, I will gladly add it to my list, but I probably won't get to it before the holidays. Thank you so much to everyone who asked for a fic. I'm still slightly in awe that you guys enjoy reading my writing, and I'm so grateful to all of you who read and review. This wouldn't be possible without you.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Sixteen: The Lights**

Karl could tell that Bree hated it here.

It wasn't hard. For how repressed and stilted her emotions were, Vegas had seemed to kill her ability to pretend. Sure, she still had that smile plastered to her face, but it was stretched thin, and her eyes couldn't possibly belie her disgust. Funnily, though, Karl would be lying if he denied that part of the reason he'd brought her here was to see if he could finally make her self-destruct. He liked prodding at her—he had since he'd first met her; he liked provoking her until she reacted, and since he'd started sleeping with her, that had gotten harder and harder to do. Sure, he was happy that he was rubbing off on her—she was a hell of a lot less uptight than she used to be—but he was going to miss it he completely lost the capacity to shock the hell out of her.

Bree gasped as a group of girls stumbled by her, all wearing heels so high they would put Gabrielle Solis to shame, one of them sporting a huge tattoo of angel's wings over her back. He tugged at Bree's hand a little, trying to get her to keep up with the pace of the city, but she seemed too overwhelmed to move. He wasn't sure what, in particular, had prompting her freezing like a statue: the huge crowd of people swarming around them; the cacophony of music and talking and cars rushing by; the dazzling lights. Maybe it was some combination of those things.

"That tattoo!" Bree hissed, leaning into him to be better heard. "Does she realize what that will look like in another twenty years?"

Yeah. It figured that was it.

"Come on," he prompted, trying not to laugh at her and mostly failing. She was just too cute. "We're going to miss it if we don't get going."

"Miss what?"

"It's a surprise!"

Bree raised a questioning eyebrow, that stubborn set of her jaw tightening, and Karl quickly kissed her. "Will you just trust me for once? You're going to like this." He pulled at her hand again, relieved when this time she started to follow him. It felt a bit like being a guide dog. Much as she probably wanted to, Bree couldn't look away from the sights and sound of Vegas, and he had no choice but to lead her through the city.

He was still surprised that he'd been able to convince her to come. Up until (if he was honest, maybe still including) now, he'd really thought that this was a fling for her. That after years of it lying dormant, Bree's rebellious side had bloomed, but that like most everyone, it would be a phase that eventually ended. She'd grow weary of him and go back to the familiar, the comfortable. This felt like a huge step forward. Like maybe someday she really would leave Orson and fall into his arms, and that this time it would be happily ever after.

God, he could be a romantic son of a bitch sometimes.

"Karl!" He glanced over at Bree, who stood stalk still again, gaping at two Elvis impersonators. They were disparately over a foot apart in height, and they seemed to be engaged in quite an unprofessional argument about what song they should be singing. "Have you ever seen—What is that?"

She rushed forward, dragging him along for the ride, to a woman with a collection of exotic birds. They rested on her—her shoulders, arms, hands, even the top of her head—varied in color and size. "What is this place?" she asked, ambivalent in her awe and horror. "Karl…I never imagined."

"Yeah, I know it's a little tackier than what you're used to."

She smiled. "If you were a city…" she teased. "No wonder you like it here."

He decided even he couldn't go so far as to remind her that she'd just compared him to a place where prostitution was legal. Limits. He was learning them, slowly but surely. "We'll see if you still say that after you see what's next. If we get there."

"Okay, okay." She looked at the bird woman with a reluctance to leave that he didn't expect, and they continued on their way. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly midnight. Fortunately, they were almost to the Bellagio. When she'd agreed to come on this trip, it was the first place he'd thought to bring her; now that they approached, though, he could feel his heart beating faster, nervous in a way he rarely felt. He wanted her to like this, he realized. In some strangely stupid, important way, it felt like a test that he desperately wanted to pass.

There were hundreds of people crowded around as they approached, but Karl didn't hesitate to shove his way through to get a better view. "Excuse me. Sorry. Need to get up front. My wife—always wanted to see it, you know, and this is her last chance. She's dying. Consumption." He kept up the litany of excuses—lies—as he pushed through, glad that Bree couldn't seem to hear him. People looked torn between bewilderment and downright annoyance, but Karl was persistent in his quest. He kept going until they were right at the front of the crowd, looking out at the fountain of water.

"What is this?" asked Bree.

"Just wait." Karl squeezed her hand, scarcely breathing, he was so excited. It was darker here, away from some the onslaught of electricity, but she glowed ethereally in glow of the various purple and pink lights coming from the fountain. It was ridiculous how beautiful she was; he still wasn't quite sure what she was doing with a guy like him. But God, he was going to enjoy it as long as it lasted.

Out of the darkness, music suddenly swelled, a hush falling over the crowd as the lights dimmed for a second. Then suddenly, the fountain burst to life. The water began to dance in time to the music, lit by a rainbow of light that overtook the dark night, but Karl could only watch for a minute before his eyes were drawn back to Bree. Her face was sparkling, a magic, fantastic delight spreading over her features as she gazed out at the show before them. She looked alive.

He thought he would give anything to be able to make her look like this every day.

"Bree." He leaned down toward her, pressing his lips to her ear and kissing her. He took a deep breath. "I love you."

And maybe it was impossible, maybe it was just wishful thinking, but Karl swore that when she turned to him with that brilliant look on her face, the entire world shined a little brighter.


	17. Someday Soon

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**A/n: **This is for **Abbie**, who asked for a fic about Tom and Lynette's first Christmas together. I decided to do their very first Christmas together when they were newly dating. Last year I wrote a fic about their first Christmas together as a married couple ("Untangling the Knot" if anyone is interested); the two might not be completely cohesive, but I hope you guys still like this one.

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Seventeen: Someday Soon**

"Shit! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Lynette?"

"I'm okay!" he heard her call from the other room. Tom sat forward, ready to spring into action even though she'd forbidden him from entering the kitchen; it was impossible not to feel uncertain about that dictate, though, given the swearing and clanging coming from the kitchen. She'd greeted him at the door in a manic fit of energy a half an hour ago, kissing him and pushing him down on the couch before she'd dashed off to the kitchen. He'd been a bit vexed. Tomorrow they both had family obligations, and the fact that she was squirreled away in the kitchen negated the idea of spending Christmas Eve together. Now he began to wonder if concern should be his primary thought.

"Do you need any help?"

"No! I'll be right out!"

Reluctantly, Tom settled back on the couch, tapping out an anxious rhythm against his knee. He wasn't quite sure what to expect from this night. He'd assumed that they'd settle in on the couch and he'd find out what her favorite Christmas movies were, but he was beginning to wonder if Christmas was even reason for her to celebrate. Her apartment bore no sign that it was the holidays, and he was pretty sure she didn't subscribe to the religious aspect of it. Still, if this was meant to just be a normal date night together, it bore absolutely no resemblance to any of their previous outings.

"Okay!" Lynette burst out of the kitchen with a huge smile on her face, balancing a tray of cookies and two thermoses in her arms. "Get your coat," she ordered just as he stood to take the tray from her hands. Before he could take it from her, she set everything down on the coffee table and hurried over to grab her coat from the hook on the wall by the door. "Come on," she prompted, tugging on her boots and then, shockingly, producing a slightly squished Santa hat from her coat pocket and putting it on. She patted his arm as she went back to the table and picked up the thermoses. "You can carry the cookies."

"Where are we going?"

"Up to the roof."

"The roof?"

"Uh-huh." She went up on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Bring that blanket on the couch too."

"Okay," said Tom, not quite certain what he was agreeing to. He'd known from the moment he'd met her that Lynette was a bit of a whirlwind; it was impossible not to get caught up in her energy and determination. This was the first time he'd seen her so intently focused outside of work, though. It felt a little overwhelming, but in a great way, like she was taking him on some kind of adventure he didn't know he needed.

"Tom! Let's go!"

He smiled, shrugging on his coat and grabbing the blanket and cookies. On his way out, he managed to tug the door shut and tried not to let it bother him that she hadn't bothered to lock up. She was already at the end of the hall, holding open the door to the stairwell as he walked toward her. "It's just two flights up," she promised, as though that was a deterrent; if that was the case, he never would have made it to the third floor in the first place. He started up the stairs with her following close behind, but when he reached the top floor, she darted underneath his arm and leaned back against the door to the roof. "Okay," she said. "So this is kind of your Christmas present."

"What is?"

"What's on the other side of this door. And the cookies."

"Alright." He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to open the door, but she just stared up at him like she was waiting for something more. "They smell delicious," he added truthfully; he was a little surprised—he wouldn't have pegged her as someone who baked.

"Just…If you don't like it, that's okay. You're not going to hurt my feelings. This was kind of last minute, and a little impulsive, and—"

"Lynette." She shut her mouth, biting her lip as though she knew she was babbling. "I'm sure I'm going to love it."

"Okay."

"Okay." He nodded, and then, when she didn't move, added, "So are you going to open the door?"

She sighed and pressed back against the handle, stepping outside as it swung open. Tom followed her, eyes widening in shock as he took in the sight of the roof. In the center stood a Christmas tree, bedecked in large, colored lights, the kind people never seemed to use now in favor of the tinier, more tasteful ones. Those she'd strung up around the perimeter of the roof, and they glowed with little yellow halos around their bulbs. Beneath the starless sky, with the city oddly quiet so late on the eve of the holiday, it was as striking a sight as he'd ever seen. He was still gawking as she took the blanket from him, spreading it out on the ground near the tree and then scurrying over to turn on a portable radio she'd set near the door. The low, melancholy tones of Judy Garland's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" floated out over the roof, and it was only then that Tom seemed to regain his power of speech.

"How did you…? What in the world…?"

Lynette rang her hands, looking slightly nervous. "I know it's a little eccentric…"

"This is amazing," he said. Relief lit her features, and she sat down on the blanket, patting the spot next to her. He joined her, setting down the cookies in front of him and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The cold had already reddened her cheeks, and he was pleased when she handed him one of the thermoses and it instantly warmed his hands. As she snuggled into his side, he glanced back at the tree and shook his head in wonderment. "What made you think to do this?"

"Oh…It's…" She shrugged.

"What?"

"My mom did this for us one year. We didn't…" She paused, pressing her nose against his chest for a second; he gave her the moment, let her take the time she needed without prompting her. Gently, he kissed the top of her head. "We didn't have the money for a tree, so we decorated one in the front yard. It wasn't—I mean, we didn't really have any presents or anything, but it was really…nice."

Tom took a sip from the thermos, burning his tongue a bit on the cocoa she'd poured inside, but savoring the moment to collect his thoughts. It wasn't the first time that Lynette had alluded to her childhood not being all warmth and happy memories, but it was the most concrete detail she'd ever given him. "How old were you?" he asked, not quite sure why he needed to know.

"Uh, six, I think. It was right after my dad left."

The vision of her, tiny and pink-cheeked, blonde pigtails bobbing as she lit up with excitement as she caught glimpse of her tree, struck him as forcefully as the sight of this roof had. He'd never been so invested in putting together the puzzle pieces of someone's life, but it seemed imperative to gain some understanding of what had created this brilliant, if slightly broken, woman in front of him. She was so warm and enthusiastic and unpredictable, but he couldn't help but feel that there was some reluctance, some resistance to open up to him. For the first time, he felt like he was seeing that part of her that she kept locked up, and it made her more beautiful than he would have thought possible.

"I just always thought it was prettier outside," she said quietly. "It felt more like Christmas."

It didn't really make sense, but he nodded anyway. He wanted to ask her about the year after that one, and after that, and after that, until he'd heard about every Christmas, good or bad, but he didn't think she'd tell him. Not yet.

Someday, though.

"I love it," he said, leaning down and briefly capturing her lips. And, silently, amended, _I love you_.

Yes, someday the time would be right.

Someday soon.


	18. Within and Without

**Disclaimer: **Really, it is never going to be mine.

**A/n: **Tonight's fic is for **StylishCandy**, who asked for a story about the time Bree was in the psychiatric hospital at the end of season two (which in my wacky timeline, ended in January 2007). More of a character piece than anything. I hope you guys enjoy it.

Thank you, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last couple chapters!

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Eighteen: Within and Without**

"Why don't you tell me about your mother?"

Bree stiffened just slightly. She stood at the window, looking out at the sad attempt the hospital had made at creating a garden. It looked bleak in the January morning, though she didn't imagine it was much prettier even in full bloom. Regardless, it was better than acknowledging this office with its affected comfortableness: the prim, but worn couch; the seascape pictures on the walls; the muted tan color of the walls—sandy beach, she thought was the name of this particular shade. Rex had called it "blah." Not a particularly elegant way of putting it, but at this juncture in her life, she found herself agreeing.

"Are you one of those doctors?" she asked. She didn't bother to hide the exhaustion in her voice; of all the places in the world to give up any presumption of perfection, this was ultimately the best. People did not check themselves into psychiatric hospitals and maintain any visage of normalcy. Even Bree knew that. "You're going to blame everything on my mother?"

"I don't subscribe to blame, Mrs. Van de Kamp. We make the best of what is dealt to us in life. But often how you react stems back to your childhood, yes."

"My mother died when I was a child."

"I see. And how did that make you feel?"

Bree shut her eyes. She wondered if she ought to begin counting how many times he asked her that. How did your husband dying make you feel? How did it feel to leave your son on the side of the road? Describe how you felt when your daughter ran away. Answering these questions felt beyond ridiculous. Especially as she didn't feel anything more than numb. She'd heard people refer to her as the ice queen before; now, finally, the name seemed apt.

"Sad, I assume," she said. "I loved my mother."

"How did she die?"

"She was hit by a car."

"So it was sudden."

"Yes, it was sudden," snapped Bree, suddenly whirling around to face the doctor. "Is there any end to this pointlessness?"

"You checked yourself in here for a reason, Mrs. Van de Kamp. I'm just trying to help."

"I checked myself in here because there's nothing left for me at home. In a year and a half, I've lost my entire family. I stood in my living room, realizing that it was time to set up for Christmas, and it suddenly struck me that there was no point. I'd be doing it for no one. Not that it hasn't felt that way for years."

"The holidays can be a difficult time for a lot of people."

Bree tried to imagine what would have happened if Danielle had left around Halloween or over the summer. It was impossible to conceive of it being any less excruciating. Failure was failure, regardless of the season. "My mother died right before Christmas," she said, feeling, for the first time, some satisfaction as the doctor raised an eyebrow. She had the impression that he was beyond perfunctory; his couldn't believe in anything beyond the mundane. It made her miss Dr. Goldfine fiercely because she knew that even as he read into this revelation, some part of him would have sympathized with her as well. He had wanted to understand her; this man before her now simply wanted to cure her, to check another patient off in the win column. It made her wish that she hadn't been too ashamed to go back to Dr. Goldfine at the moment she'd needed him most.

Maybe she was still capable of some feeling after all.

"Christmas must be a difficult time for you."

"On the contrary, I've always liked Christmas. Even after my mother died, my father and stepmother always put on a big celebration. When my children were little, it was my favorite time of year."

"What changed?"

"They grew up. Their father died. At some point they stopped caring."

The doctor nodded, jotting something down on his legal pad, just barely regarding her over the rims of his glasses. He probably thought that she lived for her children. That she had lived for Rex. That without her family she was nothing. If so, it was nothing Bree herself hadn't thought a thousand times over in the past year. She wanted more than such an on-the-nose diagnosis. She wanted a solution. She wanted an explanation for why it was such a bad thing to live for the people in her life—for why they didn't appreciate it, and why everyone else found it incomprehensible.

"Do you think your mother would be proud of you?"

For the first time since she'd arrived, Bree was caught off guard by a question. She sank onto the couch, frozen for a moment, quietly contemplating what he'd asked. Her memories of her mother were sparse enough to fit in the palms of her hands, and half of those she thought were recreated from stories she'd heard from other people and pictures she kept in her photo album. She'd been a proud woman, very involved in their church. The night she was killed, she was taking dinner to their invalid neighbor. She'd always smelled of lilies and the little peppermint candies she ate.

None of that answered the question.

"I have no idea," said Bree, honestly. "I didn't really know her."

"She was your mother."

"Yes. What is your point?"

The doctor scratched his temple with his pen, regarding her under close scrutiny. Bree tried not to shy from his gaze, but it was impossible; she turned her attention to her hands instead. "Are you proud of your children?"

"I love my children."

"But are you proud of them?"

"No. No…Not at the moment."

The doctor began to write feverishly, and Bree turned her tired eyes back to the window and looked out at the cold, gray sky. She suddenly felt certain that she'd found the answer to the question; her mother wouldn't be proud of her either.

There was no pride in failure.


	19. If

**Disclaimer: **It will never be mine. Trust me.

**A/n: **This is for **Kristina**, who asked for a variation on the episode "If…" This actually takes place after the episode. This was a tricky one, but incredibly satisfying to write. More author's notes at the end.

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Nineteen: If…**

**I. **_The future is unwritten except in death._

The fantasies don't end easily.

It's hard to accept because she is a person who deals in absolutes. She dreams of what may be accomplished; she sets lists with attainable goals; she knows and accepts boundaries, especially those placed by God. Daydreams hold no place in the world, yet she finds it hard to accept that a future she had just begun to fathom was so brusquely snatched from her grasp.

When Rex had died, it had been different. Part of her heart had broken and would never heal, of course, but it was not as though a door had blown open simply to shut and lock itself a moment later. She'd understood her future with Rex. They could have gone on becoming crueler and colder or grown back together, but either way they would have remained together, bearing the burdens of this world. They would have grown old, spent time with their grandchildren, and retired someplace warm for Rex to work on his golf game. There was no question in their future; it had been set in her mind years ago.

But she had not been sitting around imagining life with Karl. The thought of leaving Orson—really leaving with no strings attached—had just begun to take shape in her mind. And it wasn't because she hadn't loved Karl; it was borne solely of the fact that time had stretched out endlessly before her, full of lazy days and smiles and more than a heartbeat's realization that she could actually have a future with this man.

Now, for the first time in her life, she finds herself lost in the possibility of a future she'll never have.

On the days she misses Karl most, Bree thinks of how horrible their life might have been. She focuses on Karl's worst qualities, melds her life with Susan's—an idea previously unfathomable—and creates a world of misery. It is a place where Karl cheats on her time and again, and she is too weak to leave him. On her most creative days, she lets herself catch him in bed with two women, and forces herself to remain chained to this life. Somehow, this manufactured torture works. It doesn't quell the grief, but when she comes back to reality, the future looks brighter.

Every so often, though, she slips. At the most inopportune times—as she's driving past their motel; when she hears a Gershwin tune—a guilty pleasure of Karl's; when she lets her hair down at the end of the day—her mind will spin uncontrollably to a future she dares not contemplate consciously. It's just one moment, always the same…

They're old and gray, but Karl still has that devil-may-care smile. She's knitting—there's another grandchild on the way—but Karl turns up the CD player, blasting some raucous tune that secretly makes her heart beat faster. "Haven't you made enough booties by now?" he asks, and before she can protest, he recklessly tosses her knitting aside and pulls her to her feet. "You'd never deny me a dance, would you?"

"I haven't yet," she says, thinking of all the dances they shared. Even years before, when they were nothing more than adversaries, still married to other people and sharing a reluctant couple's night, she'd dance with Karl. He'd grab her before she could protest, Rex laughingly waving her away, because Susan had two left feet and Karl loved to dance—wildly and laughingly; even then, Bree was the only one who could match him.

"Well I am impossibly charming," he laughs, and he spins her around the living room, her smile so broad that it almost hurts…

It never goes any further; it can't. She comes out of her stupor, falls back to earth. Falls so hard that it hurts every time.

Her greatest fear is that these fantasies will never end.

* * *

><p><strong>II<strong>. _Inevitability is so rarely an excuse._

"I haven't seen my mother since Juanita's baptism."

Gaby studies her left knee as she says this. She's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, holding her left leg to her chest, her right foot treading water in Carlos' bath. Casually, she diverts her eyes to his face, but he's hardly paying attention to her. His eyes are half-shut; he's warm, content and too sleepy for this conversation. "Do you want to invite her here for Christmas?" he asks.

"No," says Gaby, an answer so honest that it stings. "I don't miss her, and I don't think she'd come even if we did invite her."

"Probably not."

Frustrated, Gaby scrapes her big toe against Carlos' calf, and he flinches, more in reflex than pain. He looks at her though, finally, an expression of annoyance etched on his features. She's satisfied with just having his full attention. "I'm worried I'm turning into my mother."

Carlos laughs, loud and obnoxiously. "You are nothing like your mother."

She ignores this, turns and puts her other foot in the tub so she's facing him directly. It's hard not to be annoyed by his glibness even though she knows he's not a mind reader. He can't see into her mind and know her fears, but she wishes he could. She doesn't want to have to explain; she doesn't want to reveal this new thought that subtly picks away at her brain at all hours of the day, especially as its one that she's certain Carlos doesn't share.

Her husband sinks down in the water, apparently under the impression that this conversation is over. His eyes are still lit with mirth, but she's not sure if he's more amused by himself or her. "I'm worried that my relationship with the girls is going to turn out exactly like my relationship with my mother."

"Gaby." He sounds exasperated now, that tone he always gets when he thinks she's making a mountain out of a molehill. But it's not something he can see. Not the man who worshipped his mother; not the man whose daughters worship him. "You're a great mom. The girls love you."

"I'm selfish. What if what I think I'm doing for them, I'm really just doing for myself? My mother did that all the time, and she never understood. And now we haven't seen each other in seven years."

Carlos sits up, setting his wet hands on her knees and looking her in the eye with as much seriousness as he can muster. He thinks she's being crazy; maybe she is. But that vision of the future haunts her obliquely, and she can't help but think that it's just one path to an inevitable outcome.

"Your mother never put anyone's needs ahead of her own in her entire life," says Carlos firmly. "I can name a dozen times in the past week alone that you've done that. Maybe you're a little headstrong sometimes, but God, Gabrielle, so am I. So are the girls for that matter. We're going to butt heads sometimes. That doesn't mean we're going to stop talking and freeze one another out. Hell, even when we were divorced, you and I couldn't manage that."

Despite herself, she smiles because it's true. Even when she thinks she hates Carlos, they're inexorable. And there is no doubt that the girls have inherited that passion. He's making it easy for her to imagine some other future—one where the girls come home for Christmas, and they bicker and laugh and it's not so different than how it is now.

"Can we at least let this go until they're teenagers?" asks Carlos humorlessly. "That seems a more apt time to have this conversation."

Gaby scowls and reaches out an arm to splash him wildly, shrieking as he grabs her by the waist and pulls her into the tub.

* * *

><p><strong>III. <strong>_Sometimes the worst nightmare is waking from a dream._

Lynette has become afraid to go to bed.

There are a thousand anxieties to keep her awake at night. Neither she nor Tom have jobs. Her insurance was terminated at the end of November, and she has no idea how they'll pay her hospital bills. Christmas is right around the corner, and she still doesn't want to explain to the kids how meager it will be. Usually, these are the thoughts that would make sleep impossible, but the doctor's order of rest is not one she takes lightly, and, to her shock, she finds herself unable to keep her eyes open by the end of the day.

She supposes there's something to be said for the power emotional fatigue and major surgery; it trumps all worry—all fear.

Even the fear of her own dreams.

Since the surgery, she's dreaded the end of each day, knowing that with sleep comes the inevitable world of dreams. Hers are haunted now by the ghost of her child, fraught with images of a life that no longer exists. For a few hours, she exists in a better world, one that she longs to never leave, only to be dragged kicking and screaming back to reality each morning. For thirty blissful seconds, she can remain on the outskirts of that dream, and then it dissolves like chalk drawings in a rainstorm. Every single day, it breaks her heart all over again, and she's not sure she can stand another night of this.

Tonight, she stays up later than she's managed in a week. She's curled up in a blanket on the couch, blankly staring at their Christmas tree while Tom flicks through the channels, one hand absently rubbing her foot. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, and it causes the lights on the tree to blur and form hazy halos. For a second, her eyes will drift shut, and then she'll wrench them open, determined not to succumb tonight.

In her worst moments, she wonders why she had to start loving these babies. She thinks back to her initial horror of finding out she was pregnant, to the months of uncertainty and anger, and the weariness she'd felt at the idea of becoming a mother again. She misses that in the light of this new reality; in the face of heartbreak so pure that she knows she'll never recover to be a whole person again.

As her eyes close again, she tries to imagine that world—that one she escaped at some time she can't pinpoint. She pretends she can feel the relief coursing through her body because nature did what she could never do herself. She thinks of how much less overwhelming one baby would be than two; that perhaps it might even seem manageable. And for the hell of it, she imagines that she still has her job—that after her daughter is born she goes back to work and does such stellar work that she manages to oust Carlos from his position. At the same, Tom finds his dream job, and the kids are happy and healthy and successful, and life propels forward without any regret or lingering pain.

Unfortunately, it's embedded in such a lie that even the best parts of it feel like part of a nightmare. The truth is that she'd give it all up—her career, the relative easiness, the obstacle-free life—if it meant she could hold her baby just one time.

"Honey?"

Lynette opens her eyes, a single tear that rolling over the bridge of her nose and dropping onto the pillow. Tom has turned off the TV, and he's standing now, heading toward the tree to turn off the lights. "You ready for bed?" he asks as he pulls out the plug. The room goes dark, and she's grateful because he won't be able to see her tears or the fear in her eyes.

"Yeah," she answers quietly.

It is the one lie that comes easily.

**A/n: **I very much hope that this satisfies the request. I chose not to reinterpret the actual episode because creating variations on their original "what if" situations seemed somewhat pointless (ie: I didn't want to do an "opposite" story where Bree fantasized about some perfect life with Karl). That also would have left me in a pickle with Lynette, as hers was the one fantasy that had a happy ending. Likewise, I didn't want to go AU and give the characters different outcomes than what happened on the show, mostly because it would be too involved for a fic of this length. I hope that the route I took for this fic makes sense, and still gives some sense of variation to "If…"

(Side note: Writing this, I remembered how much I hated that episode. Of all the inane plots—wasn't Susan's fantasy that she got fat?—this one took the cake. The only one I thought had any poignancy was Lynette's, and that is only because it brought a greater sense of loss to an already tragic situation. Gaby's plot was poorly done, and Bree's seemed like a write-off to the affair, as though one fantasy would serve to assuage her grief. If they were going to do an episode built around dreams and fantasies, I wish they had gone truly outrageous and done something completely extravagant like "what if Mary Alice had never killed herself" or something. What was presented in "If…" was simply a mess, in my opinion. So it turns out that writing this was a bit cathartic for me.)

Many thanks to those of you who read and reviewed last night's chapter. I would love to hear what you thought of this one too, so thank you in advance if you take a minute to review. It means more than you know.

Five to go! Almost there!

-Ryeloza


	20. Laundry Date

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **This is for **Tea With Bree**, who asked for a Bree/Orson story that takes place during their courtship. This may be a little out there, but it seemed appropriate for them.

Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you guys are enjoying these so much.

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty: Laundry Date**

"Last load," says Orson, coming into the living room with a basket of neatly folded towels, on top of which lies a haphazard pile of socks. He sets the basket on her coffee table and sits in front of it, but then hesitates and looks to her for permission. "Is this okay? Folding my socks here?"

"Of course."

"Excellent. Socks are tedious, as I'm sure you know. Matching them and folding them precisely. People underestimate the amount of time it takes deal with socks in your laundry."

"If you're meticulous about it," agrees Bree. "When Rex and I were dating, he used to just leave them in the dryer and pull two out each morning. Ridiculous."

Orson looks properly appalled, which she appreciates in the way one always recognizes and admires a kindred spirit. This is possibly the oddest fourth date she's ever been on, but spending an afternoon with Orson while he does his laundry is surprisingly enjoyable. There's something revealing about the way a person launders his clothes that she's never considered.

For one, Orson brought his own hangers. She watched as he ironed, folded and hung all his pants and button down shirts, each one looking fresh and crisp as he finished. He even buttoned all of the buttons, just as she does (how anyone thinks they can get away with just buttoning the top button—or, heaven forbid, none of them—is beyond her). To anyone else, this might seem inconsequential, but his attention to detail makes her heart beat faster. She imagines what those nimble fingers might do elsewhere; how his fastidiousness might translate in the way he touches her.

Even more interesting was the way he progressed through his laundry. Starting with whites and then darks, followed by towels and finally delicates. It's wild—who starts with their whites and saves delicates for last when those must line dry?; it's madness!—and they argued for almost thirty minutes about the most logical order in which to do laundry. She's still pleasantly surprised the he won the fight, ending with a parting jab of, "But I get to stay longer if I save the line drying for last." There was no counterargument to be had beyond smiling ridiculously.

This, though, watching him fold socks, might be the sexiest thing she's seen any man do in a very long time.

Dress socks have such subtle variations. A pattern sewn in for jazziness; a darker coloring on the toe; some pairs are slightly longer than others; others have a slightly thicker cuff. It takes a practiced eye to notice these differences, and a strong character to take the time to match them each to their perfect mate. Not very many people seem to care; as long as the colors match—black and black, brown and brown—there is no reason to go the extra mile. But here Orson sits before her, examining each sock to find its partner, lining them up and folding them precisely. It's beautiful: the symmetry of it, the devotion, the intensity toward perfection. His hands work with care over each sock, and she can't look away.

It takes him a moment to notice that she's staring. He raises an eyebrow even as he continues his examination of two particularly tricky gray socks and says, "Don't tell me you have a problem with the way I fold socks as well. I don't want to hear that you're one who rolls them into a ball and tosses them into the sock drawer."

"I would never!"

"Thank goodness."

Bree stands and comes to sit next to him on the couch, folding her hands on her lap to keep from taking the socks into her own hands. It's too intimate, probably; after all, he's only here because his own washer is broken. "It's just," she says, her voice trembling ever-so-slightly, "lovely. The way you do your laundry, I mean. It's…It's lovely."

Orson lowers the socks he's holding to his lap, reaching out and taking one of her hands. He smiles as he runs his thumb over her palm, and she swears she can hear her heart beating. The way he looks at her makes her feel worshipped and, maybe more importantly, respected. She's forgotten what that feels like; until now, she hadn't realized how much she's missed it. "Bree," he says quietly, "would you like to help me fold my socks?"

"Really?"

"Yes, re—"

She cuts him off, impulsively leaning toward him and capturing his mouth, kissing him slowly. It's different than their first kiss, softer and sweeter, but no less passionate. It's insane, but she thinks she may be falling in love with him.

She's missed that too.

"Orson," she says, pulling back from him. They're smiling at one another like they're the only two people in the world.

"Yes?"

"I would love to help fold your socks."

Maybe the best thing of all is that she doesn't even doubt that the thrill in his eyes is absolutely genuine.


	21. Between the Lines

**Disclaimer: **It's still not mine.

**A/n: **Tonight's fic is for **Breesecretdaughter**, who asked for a continuation of the scene in the pilot where Lynette punches Tom. This is one I've had in my mind to write for a long time (as in I've had part of it written for two years), and I'm glad I finally got it done. Thanks for the request!

Continued thanks and deepest appreciation to all of you!

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-One: Between the Lines**

"'Let's risk it'?" Lynette said again as Tom tenderly attempted to move his jaw. It hadn't been a particularly hard punch, he doubted it would even bruise, and he thought he was more stunned than anything. But he seriously wondered if Lynette understood the meaning of an overreaction. "Are you kidding me?"

"You just punched me," he pointed out. "You might have knocked a tooth loose."

Lynette answered this blatant exaggeration with one pointed look. "Do you _remember_ what happened the last time you said that?"

"Yeah. We ended up with Penny."

"And the time before that?"

"To be fair, I don't think I actually said that when we conceived Parker." In fact, he knew he hadn't. If they were going to tell that story, it went more like it was their first weekend away from the twins since they were born, and they'd been really, really drunk. And there had been a hot tub. And absolutely no thought of contraceptives. Not that he was about to mention that.

"Tom, because of you I can count on one hand the number of months I _wasn't_ pregnant in the late nineties. We are done having kids. End of discussion."

"This is a discussion?" Quickly, he held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture, a fruitless attempt to quell the suspicious, furious look in her eyes. "Okay. Sorry. We're not joking about this. Got it." With no regard for life or limb, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her clavicle. He wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't even more turned on; it probably spoke to some masochistic part of him, but she was undeniably hot when she got this passionate. He gave her a couple more less tentative kisses. "I'll wear a condom."

"Really? You're still in the mood?"

"You're not?"

Lynette sighed as his lips trailed down, kissing to the swell of her breast. He settled one hand on her hip, surprised when she took a firm grip on his tie and gave a sharp tug to regain his attention. "I'm sorry," she said.

"That's okay. I might have deserved it. Especially after hearing your voicemails get progressively more desperate this week."

"They weren't desperate."

"No…You just threatened to pack up the kids and take them with you on an airplane to come spend three days with me in a crappy little motel room."

"I did not."

"Do I need to replay it?"

"You _saved _it?"

"That's what I thought." He grinned for a second, brushing a finger along her eyebrow and down her cheek, and then growing more serious as she shut her eyes and took a deep breath. This hadn't been a trip he'd made just for a quickie; in fact, this was actually a pretty obnoxious dent in his schedule. She'd sounded so overwhelmed on the phone, though (whether she wanted to deny it now or not), and it only compounded his guilt about not being home this week. It wasn't like she was going to admit out loud that she'd needed him to hold her hand through her friend's funeral, but he knew it was true. He'd learned long ago how to hear what she wasn't saying to him. Usually, it was those things that were the most important.

He'd be lying, though, if he didn't say that he'd hoped this could wait until after he'd ravished her. He'd been aching to touch her—really touch her—since the second he'd walked into the house.

_Good things come to those who wait_, his mother's voice echoed in his head, more effective than the coldest shower. Not that he hadn't already been waiting over a week to touch her like this. Still…

"Was it a nice service?" he asked, still gently running his finger along the planes of her face. Her eyes betrayed the subtlest hint of vulnerability as she opened them, try as she might to mask it with indifference. It was amazing that she still bothered to hide from him after eight years together; vaguely, he wondered if she'd ever stop.

"Yes," she said. She lightly scraped her fingernail along the skin he'd exposed loosening his tie. The things she could do to him with the slightest touch—she might as well have spread her legs and said, "Take me now." Instead, she smiled halfheartedly and said, "The minister was inane, but Paul…Paul said some really lovely things. I never knew that he and Mary Alice met at a swing dancing club."

"Paul swing dances?"

"No. He said he made an ass out of himself. But I could picture…Mary Alice would have found it charming, you know?"

"Yeah."

It struck him then that he could feel the loss of Mary Alice more keenly through Lynette than any personal emotion. He'd always liked her; she'd had a good sense of humor and was always unfailingly nice. But when he'd heard what had happened, his sorrow had been more about how this would affect Lynette, what she would be feeling and thinking and how she would be hurting. That had broken him far more than the death itself, and he knew he'd never be able to explain it to anyone without sounding callous and cold.

"I saw her that morning," said Lynette apropos to nothing; her voice sounded uncharacteristically meek. "And I knew…She seemed not…herself. But I was running late, and you were leaving for Chicago that day, and I didn't…"

She pressed her hand over her eyes, not crying, but trying to fight off exhaustion and guilt and grief as only she would. He stroked his hand over her forehead, letting his thumb graze her temple in a soothing gesture. "This isn't your fault."

"I know." She was lying through her teeth; he could hear it in her voice, see it in the way her body tensed slightly. "I know that."

"Lynette." He waited until she drew her hand away from her eyes, meeting her defiant gaze with the softest look. She'd fight him every step of the way on this, but it wouldn't stop him from saying it. "You can't save everyone. It's not possible. And it's not your job."

"I don't—I know that."

"You're probably never going to know why she did it. But it's not because you didn't stop and ask one time. It doesn't work that way."

"I'm never going to know that for sure."

"This—" He paused and took a deep breath, working hard to control his temper. There was nothing that would ever change the weight of concern on her shoulders; not when she had been acting as a caregiver from the time she was six. He loved her for it as much as he wanted to take that burden and bear it himself. "This isn't your responsibility. Mary Alice had dozens of people in her life that loved her, and no one saw it coming. You can't take the blame for this."

"I'm not, Tom. I'm really not." She raised a hand to cup his cheek, and then moved to run her thumb against his bottom lip, a way to quiet him before she spoke. "But part of me is always going to wonder. That's just how it is."

She stared at him, silently asking for acquiescence that he didn't want to give. There was no choice, though. Lynette wasn't suddenly going to change, and he didn't want her too. It was just that he'd give anything in his power to steal at least this one hardship from her, if only she'd let him.

She must have seen the hopeless realization in his eyes; her own look softened, becoming tender and grateful. She knew he understood, even if he didn't agree. "Do you know how much I love you?" she asked, wearing a smile so loving and appreciative that he thought it might break him. She moved her hand to the back of his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. "Really," she murmured against his lips. "Love you more than you'll ever know."

"I know," he said, because he could feel the same thing down to his bones. He could never tell her how much he loved her, in words or actions—there was no expression equivalent to how much he felt for her. But as she held him closer, kissed him deeper, he knew that they'd spend the rest of their lives trying to speak that truth.


	22. Roommates

**Disclaimer: **This is not at all mine.

**A/n: **This fic (coming to you from a very crowded, noisy airport) is for **stormy-weather96**, who asked for a story about Lynette and Renee in college. I had so much fun writing this (although, I probably read a lot more angst and drama into their relationship than other people do, and this fic is a good example of that), and it probably could have gone on even longer if I didn't have to get on a plane (although that gives me a good excuse to come back to this time period). Takes place their freshman year, probably around November. I hope you guys enjoy this. It's the first time I've ever explored Renee's point of view as well as Lynette at this age, so I would love to hear what you think. Thank you in advance!

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Two: Roommates**

Renee wrapped her arms around her torso, cursing the fact that she hadn't thought to grab a coat before coming outside. Her father was doing the same thing he always did when they said goodbye—standing awkwardly by the car and looking at her like he had no idea what to say. He'd continue this, and the inane small talk, until her stepmother rolled down the window and said they needed to go, and then the relief would brush across his features, he'd give her a hug and a check, and that would be that.

She just wished he would hurry the whole thing up because it was frigid outside.

"Your roommate seems nice," her dad said. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and rocked up and down on his feet. "Opinionated…"

Code for rude, thought Renee. Not that she hadn't thought the same thing about Lynette a hundred times in the past two months, but watching her roommate belittle her father's view of economics over Chinese food had been surprisingly refreshing. It was certainly preferable to the snide comments Lynette usually saved for her, regarding everything from her leaving milk in the fridge past the expiration date to Renee failing to mention that she was bringing a boy back to the room. If she didn't loosen up a little, she was probably going to have a stroke by the time she was thirty.

"I take it she's here on a scholarship."

Renee almost laughed. If he had it his way, nepotism would be the only thing that made the world go round. "Yeah," she said. "I guess. We haven't discussed it." But judging by the way Lynette stressed over always getting to class and pulled all-nighters and never, ever let Renee copy her notes just because she missed their English lit. class, then yeah, she'd wager she hadn't decided to come here just on a whim. For Renee, though, it had been spend another year with at home with her father and Shelby, or take him up on his offer of buying her way into college.

It hadn't exactly been a hard choice.

Blessedly, Shelby chose that moment to roll down the window and coo in that sickeningly sweet voice, "George, dear, it's getting late, don't you think. Say goodbye to Renee."

Her dad stepped forward and hugged her obediently; for a second, she was enveloped in warmth, breathing in the familiar scent of cigars and cologne, and then her father pulled back. "Here," he said, handing her a folded check. "I know how much living expenses are."

"Thanks, Dad." She stuffed the check into the back pocket of her jeans without looking at it. So far, her father's monthly supply of checks had kept her from eating in the cafeteria; she didn't doubt it would suddenly change. "Say hi to Vanna for me," she added, making sure to raise her voice enough for Shelby to hear. It annoyed her stepmother to no end that her dog preferred Renee to her.

Her father gave her a look that said he knew what she was doing, but he didn't chastise her. With a quick pat to her arm, he turned and got into the car, and Renee stuck around just long enough for them to pull away before hurrying back into the building. After being outside, the overly warm dormitory felt welcome, but she knew it would only be an hour at most before she'd stripped off her sweater and jeans for cotton shorts and a tank top. How the school could afford to keep this place as hot as a tropical beach, she'd never know.

She wasn't at all shocked to find Lynette with her nose already in a book when she got back. Her roommate sat on her bed, glasses on, hair pulled up in a sloppy mess, leaning over a thick textbook; unsurprisingly, she'd already shed her winter clothes in favor of something cooler. As Renee shut the door, Lynette actually glanced up from the book, casually turning over her highlighter again and again with her fingers. "Hey," she said, as though they didn't spend most of their time ignoring each other. They certainly didn't bother to acknowledge when either of them entered or left the room. Renee raised an eyebrow, but Lynette didn't even have the grace to look sheepish; she was unfailingly immune to embarrassment. Even worse, what she said next came out without any sarcasm or hesitation. "Thanks."

"For what?" Renee flopped down on her bed and picked up the magazine she'd been reading before her parents had shown up, more than ready to put on her headphones and ignore Lynette as she usually did.

"For inviting me to dinner tonight. You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well…It usually helps to have a buffer between me and Shelby. And you're the only person I know who doesn't have plans on a Friday night."

Lynette continued to be immune to Renee's barbs. It was infinitely annoying. "Still, that was nice of them. To drive all the way here for your birthday."

"I guess."

It was quiet for a moment, but when Renee glanced back at her roommate, she was still staring at her with that air of someone studying a specimen in a laboratory. With her glasses on, eyes seeming large and too observant, it was even more unnerving. "What?" she asked, not quite pulling off the indifference she intended.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"Sorry." Lynette's eyes flickered away for a moment, and then reluctantly returned to Renee again. "Just…I think you could do this for real."

"What are you talking about?"

"This whole college thing. I didn't really realize…I mean, the way your dad was talking—"

Renee narrowed her eyes. Her father was infallible in his ability to be passive aggressive, a quality that goaded her on her best days, but it didn't give anyone—least of all her gawky, geeky roommate—the right to comment. "You don't know what you're talking about."

For once, Lynette looked chagrined. She finally dropped her gaze, turning back to her book and tapping her highlighter against the open page for a second. "It's just…Well my relationship with my mom isn't that great either. And I just thought you needed to hear it, maybe. That you can do this. You're a lot smarter than you act."

"Gee, thanks," said Renee. Of all the condescending, ridiculous things Lynette had said to her, this took the cake. Her relationship with her mom wasn't that great? How many times had Renee heard that from girls in high school? Girls bitching that their moms weren't fair or didn't understand. It always took everything in her power to keep her mouth shut. Maybe this was one time too many. Maybe it was because she and Lynette had been living together for two months now with an explosion brewing between them. Whatever it was, this time, Renee found herself unable to keep quiet. "You know, at least you have your mom."

Lynette didn't say anything. She looked like she was reading again, but for some reason, Renee didn't think she was. It was the way the color suddenly rose in her cheeks, bright and flushed—not in embarrassment, but anger. What the hell she had to be angry about though, Renee couldn't begin to guess. She also knew that she had no desire to find out. She stood, grabbing her magazine and Walkman, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

It was only once she had stepped back outside, that she realized she'd forgotten her coat again. Somehow, though, she could barely feel the cold now.


	23. Christmas Wish

**Disclaimer: **I sound like a broken record. It's not mine.

**A/n: **This story, featuring Bree, Karl and Evan, is for **RoxyAnn**. I really hope that you enjoy it. Takes place in season six, right before Karl dies.

I have one request for this round to go, and I'm going to do everything in my power to get it up tomorrow, but since it's Christmas Eve, there's always a chance I'll get too caught up in the festivities to get a chance to write. If that's the case, please know that I will post as soon as possible after Christmas.

Thank you all for your continued support of this (sometimes crazily ambitious) project! I really couldn't do it without you.

-Ryeloza

**A Second Collection**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Three: Christmas Wish**

"Da-ad!" A little finger poked the back of Karl's head through the gap in the neck rest of the passenger's seat. "Why are we doing this?"

For the life of him, Karl wasn't quite sure how to answer. He was doing it because he'd been struck with some overwhelming desire to have Bree meet Evan, but he wasn't about to say that. In fact, he was pretty sure it was one hell of a gamble; Evan already had abandonment issues, and he wasn't sure why he was introducing him to another woman who might breeze in and out of his life without a second thought. Of course, that probably wasn't even what Evan was asking. He was probably asking why they were sitting in the car waiting for Bree to come out of the coffee house with warm beverages and then embarking on some mystery adventure. Knowing Bree, they were probably going to look at paint samples or something.

Not that he would say that either.

"Come on, Evan," he said, loathing the falseness in his voice; he'd always prided himself on being able to speak frankly with his kids. "This is going to be fun."

"We're just sitting here."

"Yeah," he muttered, and then more enthusiastically added, "but I know what we could do to pass the time."

"What?"

"Letter to Santa."

Evan's head popped out from between the seats with a sudden, wary enthusiasm that had been lacking since Bree had picked them up. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." Karl reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his electric bill and then searched for and found a pen in Bree's glove compartment. With no concern for the bill—he'd just find a new envelope later—he popped the cap on the pen with his teeth, spit it out and began to write. "Dear Santa," he narrated. "Even though I've been somewhat of a pain in the ass this year—"

"Dad!" Evan shook his arm, and Karl rolled his eyes.

"Okay, okay. You tell me what to write."

"Dear Santa, I want an Xbox and a football and—"

"Evan, come on. We've talked about this. Writing to Santa isn't just a list of demands. You at least have to ask how his wife is."

"Why?"

"Because that's what men do."

"Fine," agreed Evan with a huffy sigh. "Dear Santa, how is your wife? I hope you liked the chocolate chip cookies last year because that's the only kind me and my dad can make."

"Much better."

"Okay, now I want an Xbox and a football and one of those robots that eats money—"

"Robot that eats money?" Karl scribbled it down, wondering how the hell he was going to pull that off, when the door opened and Bree climbed back into the car, tray of drinks in hand. "Hi," she said. "Sorry that took so long. Evan, here's your cocoa."

Evan took the drink without thanks—another thing to work on, Karl noted mutely—and then poked Karl's shoulder persistently. "Did you add the robot?"

"Yes." He turned to Bree, taking his coffee and smiling. "Thanks. We were just making a Christmas list for Santa."

"Oh…You're not writing it yourself, Evan?"

"Dad always does it. He types it up on official letterhead and everything."

"Official letterhead?" Bree raised an eyebrow, her eyes laughing at Karl. "Well I'm sure Santa appreciates it."

"He does. Julie said she always got everything she asked for."

Karl shrugged sheepishly at Bree's slightly incredulous look. The Santa thing had always been his forte; with Julie, Susan had done the decorating, but he did the letter writing—he perpetuated the childlike excitement. Now, with Evan, he did everything himself.

He really wouldn't mind sharing the holiday with someone again.

"Well are we ready to go?" asked Bree, flawlessly changing the subject. "Evan, I think you're going to love this."

"I'm still in the middle of my letter to Santa."

"You can dictate on the way, buddy."

This satisfied Evan, who sat back and buckled in, still rattling off his list a mile a minute. It didn't give him and Bree a moment to get a word in edgewise, but Bree seemed to remain continually amused as they drove. He might have even heard a suppressed snort of laughter when Evan requested some official letterhead of his own. By the time they turned onto a street somewhere in the vicinity of Karl's neighborhood, Evan had exhausted most of his ideas and resorted to singing somewhat off-color versions of Christmas carols.

"What are we doing?" asked Karl as Bree subtly slowed the car, inching down the street like they were in a school zone.

"We're looking at the lights." She said this as though it was obvious, turning her head back to Evan for a second and saying, "This is the best neighborhood for them. Almost everyone puts them up."

"Lights?" asked Evan skeptically, voicing Karl's unspoken concern.

"Trust me." She pointed out the window at a house, and Karl and Evan both reluctantly turned to look. To Karl's surprise, it was an overwhelming sight: lights covered almost every inch of the house, all red, glowing so brightly that even the yard looked illuminated. It was bizarre, mesmerizing, and, strangest of all, completely tacky. There was no rhyme or reason to the lighting, nothing elegant or classy about it, and he would have never thought Bree would be the one to purposely bring him here.

"Cool," breathed Evan, obviously impressed. "That's the most lights I've ever seen on a house."

"Yeah," agreed Karl. "That's…something."

Bree grinned. "I love Christmas lights," she said. "These people go a little overboard, obviously, but I don't know…I like it."

"You like it?"

She shrugged, unapologetic. "What can I say? Sometimes my taste is a little less than conventional." She reached out and squeezed Karl's arm, a teasing smile on her lips.

Evan, oblivious to Bree's smile and Karl's rapidly beating heart, said, "What other ones are there?"

"Oh just wait," said Bree, pushing on the gas and propelling them on in their tour. "There's a maple tree down the street that's covered in every colored light you could imagine."


End file.
